


the hour of the star

by lazy_universes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Swearing, Trigger Warnings, don't be fooled this is the slowest of burns, geralt has two hands and none of you will convince me otherwise, in this house we STAN and DEFEND YENNEFER OF VENGERBERG who has never been wrong a day in her life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22094494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_universes/pseuds/lazy_universes
Summary: “We, my little kitten, know little about love,” Jaskier said with a flourish of his hand - Ciri giggled, and Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Love is like a pear. It is sweet, alright, and has a distinct shape. But try to define to me the shape of a pear.”“You’re wrong,” Yennefer said, dryly. “Love is the ultimate desillusion about everything else. And few can afford to lose all of their illusions. There are those who volunteer for love, thinking that it will enrich their personal lives, but they are wrong. It is the opposite - love is poverty. Love is not having. In fact, love is the disappointment of what was once thought to be love.”“That’s really bleak,” Jaskier said.“And that’s really naive,” she replied, raising an eyebrow.“Are you two in a competition?” Ciri asked, confused. “Because it sounds a lot like a very weird competition for someone’s love. Geralt, do you know who they’re competing for?”Geralt, struck by a sudden bout of level-headedness, merely grunted in reply.(Or: There are many ways to love as there are ways to die. Geralt of Rivia, by chance or choice, knows them all.)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Cerys an Craite, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Margarita Laux-Antille/Tissaia de Vries
Comments: 78
Kudos: 320





	1. IT'S ALL MY FAULT

**Author's Note:**

> Even though this story is set between 01x05 and 1x06, for the most part, i'm dipping into every source to create this. I'm also taking some liberties with the canon and the bestiary, as will be seen below. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Who hasn't asked himself, at one point or another:_ _  
_ _am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?_

  
  
  


###  _Thanedd, 1267_

  
  


She remembered wishing Aretuza would burn to the ground. 

She’d stay up at night, anger burning deep into her stomach, eyeing the beams holding the ceiling of her dorm together in place. It was easy enough to imagine - flames engulfing the wood, the crackling of fire eating away the cheap chalk covering the bare stone walls. If asked - and she was, many times - she wouldn’t know why _exactly_ she was angry. Maybe it was the lies, maybe it was the bullshit, or maybe the Brotherhood of Sorcerers had absolutely nothing to do with the rage she felt burning in the marrow of her bones. Perhaps it was in her genes, belonging to her as much as the curve of her spine and the shift of her jaw did, once upon a time. 

In time, the spine, the jaw and the anger would be set in place, standing correctly and proudly from an outsider’s perspective. She knew better, though; as she would thumb the parallel scars on her wrists, a reminder of what it really means to be in control, she knew her anger was lurking beneath the surface, bubbling, simmering, waiting for the exact moment to be let out. 

Geralt had been on the receiving end of that rage in many an occasion, bless his soul. But it was different now - with Aretuza burning around them, her bare skin sticky with drying blood of her brethren, the stone slippery under her feet as the last remainder of her past was reduced to ashes around her. Nilfgaard took no prisoners, she knew. 

And yet. 

“Yen,” he called, holding her wrists, voice urgent. He was used charcoal ash where she was blazing fire, roaring pyre devouring everything it was fed. Some said it was her fault, but she knew better - there was something about putting people in the world just to see them be devoured that took away meaning and engulfed hope. But sometimes he burned up just so - every once in a while, as a miracle, a phoenix would be reborn from the ashes that his life had made out of his bones. 

“She’s gone,” Yennefer whispered. There were tears trailing down her cheeks, she knew. As rare as it was, there were tears trailing down his cheeks too. He pulled her closer, arms coated in blood and grime ruining her nightgown, but she didn’t _care -_ she didn’t care, because Ciri was missing, and it was her fault. 

It was all her fault. 

“We’ll find her,” he whispered in her ear, arms tight around her shoulders, “We’ve done it once, we’ll do it again. Yen-” 

Around them, the corpses of sorcerers were engulfed by fire, curling into themselves as if to fight a death that had already seized victory to itself. She heaved, anger burning in her bones, her own chest caving into itself with the sheer strength of her rage; she dug her long nails on his arms, so deeply it drew blood- 

And she _screamed_. 

-

-

-

**THE HOUR OF THE STAR**

-

_IT'S ALL MY FAULT_

_OR_

THE HOUR OF THE STAR

_OR_

_LET HER DEAL WITH IT_

_OR_

THE RIGHT TO SCREAM

_OR_

_AS FOR THE FUTURE_

_OR_

SINGING THE BLUES

_OR_

_SHE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO SCREAM_

_OR_

A SENSE OF LOSS

_OR_

_WHISTLING IN THE DARK WIND_

_OR_

I CAN'T DO ANYTHING

_OR_

_ACCOUNT OF THE PRECEDING FACTS_

_OR_

CHEAP TEARJERKER

_OR_

DISCREET EXIT THROUGH THE SERVANT’S DOOR

_-_

_-_

_-_

###  _Velen, 1253_

“Believe it or not, this time _I_ am the one who found you a job.”

Geralt said nothing - not even a grunt or even a slight nod. Some animals and monsters will leave you alone if you stand still enough, and each meeting with Jaskier got him hopeful enough to try that tactic at least _once_. It worked as well as one would expect, which was not at all. No matter how busy he tried to look drinking his tankard of ale, Jaskier was already on a rant, and there was no stopping the thunderstorm after it began. 

As with many things, he also happened to have profusal anecdotal evidence on that. 

“As you may know, I’ve collected a certain _notoriety_ amongst nobles,” Jaskier carried on, oblivious to Geralt’s suffering. “And I was invited to perform at a Soireé for Count Vserad’s birthday-”

“I am _not_ serving as your bodyguard again,” Geralt grunted, tipping his tankard to see how much ale he had left and sadly realizing it was nowhere near as _enough_ for this conversation. “The last time-”

“Yes, child of surprise, plot twists, wars, two weddings, yadda yadda, I _know_ ,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I learned my lesson and I want you nowhere _near_ the ballroom this time, lest you start telling nobles I was _castrated-_ ”

Geralt couldn’t help but snort, waving at the waitress for another drink. With the life he lead, one had to learn to take small pleasures where he could. A good drink, a nice bed, a beautiful woman, a preposterous rumour. Being a Witcher was nowhere near as fun as it might’ve seemed to the average layman, but he had a few moments of personal pride - spreading gossip about the poor eunuch Bard was definitely high on that list. 

“Ha, very funny,” Jaskier said, dryly. “The thing is, I have been talking to this girl who works as a maid for the Count, and she said all of the servants were pitching in to hire a Witcher to investigate a series of disappearances-”

“Wait,” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow. “You _actually_ mean a job. As in a _contract_.”

“What did you think I meant, that I found you a position in a brothel?” Jaskier said. “I told you I found you a job, didn’t I? Well, the servants are all concerned that there’s something in the woods behind the castle that is kidnapping their children. This maid’s younger niece was the last one, but that was a whole year ago, and it’s apparently around the time where another child _should_ disappear, or so they say.”

“Let me guess,” Geralt said, leaning back on his chair. “They tried taking it to the Count and he didn’t give a shit?”

Jaskier scoffed, but looked outside the window next to their table in silent contemplation. It was midday, but the tavern wasn’t full. Word in town was that the Count’s Birthday Aid was to be paid until the end of the week - some villagers were scrambling to get the last possible resources to pay up. Velen was a wretched place that offered nothing to be taken. Smarter rulers might’ve capitalized on Aretuza being located on its shores, funded research and learning, built fertile ground for its citizens to grow that place into something less vile. But Vserad was not a smart ruler. One could say he was a bad person, and one would be right; however, Geralt was under the impression that the only thing that refrained the Count from cruelty was the absence of a working brain inside his thick skull. 

“They show up, Raquel told me,” he said, quietly. “The bodies, I mean. Dismembered. Missing an arm. Intestines all over the place. Whatever it is, six is the oldest child it’ll take; one is the youngest. I get not _caring_ , it just- I don’t know. Cruel, I’d say.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, sipping on his ale when the waitress stomped closer, taking his empty tankard and replacing it with a full one. He had a bit more of coin to spare than usual and could maybe give her an extra mark or two, to help her pay the aid. “This isn’t cruelty. This is imbecility. If he wants a riot and being beheaded by his own people, then he’s on the right path.” 

“I promised Raquel I’d talk to you,” Jaskier said. “These people are desperate and don’t have much to offer. But I’ve seen you do worse things for less-”

“I’ll do it,” Geralt said, and downed all of his ale in a single sip. At least the ale of Velen was good enough. “Take me to Raquel.”

“I can point you the way,” Jaskier said, suddenly coy. “You see, her husband was just the most _splendid_ woodworker-”

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Jaskier,” Geralt grunted, strapping his swords to his back and tossing more coin than he actually owed to the waitress as he left. 

  
  
  


Raquel was a pretty washerwoman with brown eyes and pink cheeks, no older than eighteen, but already round with pregnancy. Her nails were bitten to a bloody pulp, and if the lard soap she was using to scrub the Count’s linen unmentionables hurt her, she showed no sign of it. In fact, she barely looked him in the eye as they talked, which Geralt was sure was fear; fear of _what_ , however, he couldn’t tell. People were usually afraid of him - that wasn’t new - but she was skittish for some other reason; maybe it was how close they were to the forest, maybe it was how many clothes she still had to scrub. 

Whatever it was, he felt sorry for her. 

“You said no one has seen the thing, then?”

“Aye,” she muttered. Her knuckles were red and irritated, and in no time would become thick and painful with arthritis. “Only the little corpses, we see. Always in front of the castle gates, right on the main square. There’s a scaffold there, innit? It’s usually somewhere close. It’s the day after the Count’s naming day, it is, and we always know.”

“Has a child been missing already?”

“Nay,” she shook her head - whatever little hair peeked out of her wimple was chestnut and coily. “They usually go on the Count’s birthday. That’s three days from now.”

“I see,” Geralt said, scratching his chin. He had very little to go with, and also not much time; he didn’t want to venture blindly into the forest, but apparently had no other option. He raised his eyes from Raquel’s tinful of clothes and eyed the thick forest circling the back portion of the castle - crooked trees covered in thick vines, as omniscient and dangerous as whatever creature living there would be. 

“Go to the blacksmith for your pay,” Raquel said. “He’s the one keeping the money.”

“I’ll take it after I figure it out,” he said, evenly. “I can’t charge for a creature I don’t know how much trouble will give me.”

“Fair enough,” she said, shrugging. “Iana in the Tavern will help you to a room if you need.”

“That’s most kind.”

“You’re our last hope, Witcher,” she said finally standing up - she wasn’t tall, but her eyes were old, _ancient_ , the kind of worn out that came from being worked to the bone. She wiped her hands dry on her apron and placed them on her hips. “It’s been ten years of this, I tell ya. When Roseanna was taken last year I was about to walk into that thrice-damned forest myself to take her back.”

“I’d advise against that.”

“I’m not _stupid_ ,” she narrowed her eyes. “That’s only so much a washerwoman can do around these areas that isn’t washing, cooking and pushing children out of her cunt. But I’m tired of nothing being done. _Something_ has to be done.”

“I will do what I must,” he said, and she nodded, leaning down to pull the breeches from the tin and hang them on the line. 

“Then I thank you, Witcher,” she said. “Oh, by the way. Tell your bard friend to keep his hands _away_ from my husband, aye?”

“My lady,” Geralt said, tiredly, and rubbed his eyes in embarrassment, “I’d guess it’s easier for me to catch this monster in the forest blindfolded and with my bare hands than for anything I say get into his head.”

“I can’t do shite against monsters, but I do know how to use a knife,” she said, dryly, tipping the tin to let the water fall on the grass. Velen was the type of miserable that was _wet_ , on top of all - his feet squashed uncomfortably as the water-saturated grass around him became a puddle of dirty water, mud and soap. “My father was a butcher, Melitele rest his soul. If he likes his prick where it is, he’ll listen to you, I say.”

“Definitely,” Geralt said, clearing his throat and walking away as fast as he could without running. 

  
  


The woods of Velen would be beautiful if they weren’t nerve-wracking. The wolf hanging from his neck didn’t stop trembling from the moment he set foot within the thick tree trunks, feet crunching dead leaves and forgotten bones left to rot under the elements. Little was worse to his senses than a magical forest crawling with monsters he hadn’t been paid to kill. 

“He was delightful, Geralt, you wouldn’t understand,” Jaskier stammered, right behind him. “I think it’s quite an overreaction, threatening to _maim_ me because of a simple _flirting_ \- Oh, _shit_ \- Ah, fuck, okay, it was just a squirrel. Heavens above-”

That, however, was objectively worse. 

“Jaskier, I don’t always give you advice, but that woman is all that stands between the castration rumours about you becoming reality,” Geralt mumbled. The wolf rattled so much it poked his leathers. “Now be quiet.” 

Jaskier looked like he wanted to argue, but kept it to himself, mumbling angrily under his breath. 

It was difficult walking in the forest on its own, but now knowing _what_ he was looking for, especially knowing it was something evil enough to go after children, made it even more so. He wondered if he could toss back a potion, see if his heightened senses would help him much, but with Jaskier on his side, it’d be the same as inviting a migraine to take up residence in his skull. So he walked - carefully, slowly, ears open-

“Geralt,” Jaskier called, “Don’t you think you should take a look at that?”

“What now-” He said, but upon turning, saw exactly what the Bard had been pointing at - a shrine, albeit crudely carved out of a single trunk of a tree long dead. The statue was of an old woman, sagging breasts hanging flatly over bony chest, each rib visible; its mouth hung open in a perpetual wail, and there were pieces of flesh in various states of decay stuffed inside. He did not know how deeply hollow the statue was, but it was nearly full to the brim. Blood, old and new, dripped down its chin, to its throat and neck, up until its navel. It looked horrifying. 

“Hmm,” he groaned, walking closer. The smell of rotting meat was strong, but not overpowering - there were maggots crawling in and out of the statue, flies crowning its disproportionately big head. But there was nothing inherently _monstrous_ about it, he pondered, aside from the fact that he couldn’t tell if the meat shoved inside the statue was human or not. 

There were a few bones on the ground by the statue’s feet, picked clean by scavengers, but those looked animal enough. Pork, if he wasn’t mistaken. But there were marks on the white carcasses, as if someone chucked it with a knife while trying to strip it of its meat. 

“Offering,” he muttered. “No monster.” 

“That’s a rather monstrous offer,” Jaskier noted. “Doesn’t that look a bit like Melitele?”

“Melitele the Crone? Hmm,” Geralt hummed, stepping back. It did look like it, but he had no recollection of Melitele ever looking that menacing. Maybe there were parts of the Cult he wasn’t privy of, but he hardly paid attention to what Nenneke preached anyhow; maybe Melitele did at a certain point eat offerings made of rotting flesh-

He smelled her before he heard her. Berries tart-

“It’s called syncretism, Jaskier,” he heard right behind him, he turned on his back-

Lilac sweet - Yennefer was staring them down, one eyebrow raised in dull interest, hands clasped behind her back. 

People tied together by destiny will always find one another, he remembered as if it was a surge of vertigo - her eyes, her lips, the curve of her waist, all of it made up a tangle of paths he wished to travel, but could not yet afford to. And yet at every twist she’d be there, a constant reminded that destiny was very much real, pulsing, thrumming, demanding: give yourself up, it ordered, give yourself over to me. 

He’d try to resist it, alright. And each time, he’d give into it, because her eyes were like the undertow - dragging him in, dragging him in- 

“Oh shit- Aah!” Jaskier yelped, stepping on a rogue piece of bone and losing his footing - he flailed his arms up, but it was for naught as he fell right on his ass on top of what seemed to be a half-rotten chicken. “Fucking- Woman, where did you _come_ from?!”

“Vengerberg,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Her eyes were sharp and violet-blue under the overcast sky and the coverage of forest leaves. “There’s a cult around, Ladies of the Wood. Melitele the Crone merged with one of the ladies into whatever _that_ is. What they lack in sculpting ability they do make up in dramatics, don’t they?”

Geralt found he couldn’t answer, frozen in place like stupid fawns in spring. She looked stunning, as she always did - curls falling wildly around her triangular face, black lace and crepe bodice and sensible walking skirts. Her eyes were cold, but they had always been, except for those precious little moments after they had defeated the Djinn. He dreamed about it, sometimes, and dreaded waking up. 

“Countess Vserad asked me to come help rid her daughter of chicken pox scars,” She said, evenly, eyeing the forest around them. Jaskier cursed in seven different languages while he pulled himself up, swatting botflies and maggots from his pants. “Then I heard the strangest tale from the servants. A _dashing_ white-haired Witcher had agreed to help them in matters I could not overhear. What a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Something’s killing children,” he manages to stutter, and sees the minute shift in her expression - the narrowing of eyes, the pursing of lips. She hummed, absently, and kicked what looked like a dog’s skull from near her feet. “One a year, around the Count’s birthday.”

“Well, that is no good,” she said, quietly. “Then again, I didn’t know what the problem _was_ , just that it was serious enough to warrant hiring _you_.”

“Maybe you’re the one killing children,” Jaskier muttered, “And eating them, old _crone_.” 

“Unfortunately, no cook will agree to season them properly and I refuse to eat unsalted meat,” Yennefer said, dryly. “But it is said the Ladies of the Woods will eat children, especially naughty ones, if you’re after a cautionary tale.” 

“But this does sound like an offering,” Geralt said, pensative, and eyed the bloody statue once more. Stuffed to the brim with meat, coated in blood. How desperate can people really _be?_ “Once a year, around the time when people have to pay with all they have left in their pantries and mills to provide for the Count’s birthday party. Someone could be offering a child to be able to meet the tax.”

“But for ten years?” Jasker said. “And the children aren’t _eaten_ , they are dismembered, which is far _worse_.”

“Debatable,” Geralt said. “This might not even be a monster, after all.”

“Hmm,” Yennefer hummed. “If I knew you were up to something serious, I’d have let my curiosity simmer from the warmth of my room. As it is now, I feel compelled to aid you.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Jaskier said, waving his hands. “Oh, no, no, _no_ . Geralt, you know how _that_ ends, come on-”

“How?” he asked, ignoring the bard’s pleas. 

“Motherfucker,” Jaskier cursed. 

Yennefer smiled for a fraction of a second - so small and so fast, he doubted Jaskier would’ve noticed. 

“The villagers and peasants will present their aids to the Count later today,” she said, shrugging. “They should be arriving by sunset. The ones who fail to pay will be hanged in the morning, the ones who are shy will be lashed right after. Or they will sell themselves into serfdom and be dead by next winter.”

“Charming fellow,” Geralt muttered. 

“I think he might be receiving some guests from other provinces to arrange for his daughter’s marriage,” she said. “The big oaf might want to act extra peacocky for show, and the villagers are more than aware of that.”

“Lady Annabelle?” Jaskier said. “But she’s hardly three years of age!”

“Noblemen are hardly reasonable when it comes to their own daughters,” Yennefer remarked. “In any case, you _could_ go and see who are the ones able to meet the demand _and_ not look desperately starving at the same time. I happen to have a space left in my chambers if you’d like to attend the festivities. Sounds better than- what is it that you’re doing here, again?”

“Going for a midday stroll,” he said, dryly. Sometimes Geralt wished he could resist her - look at her proposals and say _no_ . Witchers only team up with other Witchers, and that in itself was rare enough, or so Vesemir kept insisting. But it was _difficult_ , especially when it was something he clearly wanted and had no self control or will to deny it. 

“As far as strolls go, this one looks quite…”

“ _Terrifying_ ,” Jaskier added, “Because it _is_.”

“I was going to say _decadent_ , but sure,” Yennefer said. “Guess the rumours about the ox do carry some truth, if you lack the balls even to walk into a forest unaccompanied. Meet me by the front gates when the sun sets, Geralt. And do bathe beforehand, yes? I’m glad to know Roach is fine, but that’s quite enough horse for a single man.”

She didn’t give them time to answer, turning on her back and walking away, and Jaskier huffed angrily. 

“She’s _good_ , I’ll give you that,” he said. “But I’ll be there too, to keep an eye on your dumb, sorceress-crazy ass. Last time I left you unattended, you nearly got exploded by a Djinn.”

“Right,” Geralt said, marching out of the forest with his head on a cascade of black curls and violet eyes. 

  
  
  


Crow’s Perch was nothing to write home about, the fact that he did not have a home to speak of notwithstanding. The keep was like every other keep in every other place he’d ever been to - gray, cold and miserable just like the lands it oversaw. 

The view, on the other hand, was rather special - The great hall had large ceiling-to-floor windows, and behind the Count’s table at the end of the stone steps climbing up at the end of the room, there was an even larger one, delicate stained glass not able to shield the magnificent overlook on Velen. If there were no clouds in the sky, Geralt bet the sunset would be majestic. 

As it was, however, it was cloudy, rainy, and the open windows did nothing to conserve the heat. Jaskier himself couldn’t liven up the mood with his singing, try as he did, because the occasion in itself was gloomy and miserable. One by one, families came dragging and carrying all they could’ve found to pay the aid - whole hens, a cow, a pork. Most looked starving, pained, but he couldn’t look away. 

He felt a hand on his knee, squeezing it tightly, and looked to the person sitting by his side. Yennefer looked ravishing as always, black lace and white silk wrapped around her torso in intricate patterns of flowers. Her face was stony, unreadable, but the soft reassurance that she offered was like a lifeline.

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s _horrid._ ”

“Did you know that before you came?”

“I knew Countess Vserad made a whole mess of her daughter’s face using poultices made out of acid,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “That, and the fact that Velen has the most depressing weather, were all I knew. I did not know it would be _this_ bad.”

“I wonder if Foltest knows of this,” Geralt said. A family of seven, children’s bellies round and swollen in stark contrast with their bony joints, came forward to present three piglets and four bags of wheat, which was deemed just enough by the Chapelain. 

“On first name basis with the King of Temeria, are we now?” Yennefer smirked. “I doubt it. Word has it he has his hands full with Princess Adda-”

“I am familiar with the story,” he said, dryly, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t be coy now, Geralt,” she rolled her eyes. “I know it was you, there are _ballads_ about it. So you know it might take a while for the king to have a _slight_ grasp on his territories again, and twice that time for things to go back to normal. Vserad will pull this off for a couple of years more.”

“Still,” he shrugged, and a servant poured him more wine. Her wrists were bone thin and frail looking. He wondered if he held it against light, he’d be able to see her bones, as farmers often do to see which eggs aren’t turning into chickens. The whole place made him uneasy. “You don’t think Vserad is going too far?” 

“Most definitely,” she said. They were far enough from the high table they couldn’t be heard, but could still be seen - in a corner, Jaskier eyed the two of them with pleading eyes. “However, my days of solving royal messes are far gone. I plan on finishing Lady Annabelle’s treatment tomorrow at most-”

She stopped mid sentence, staring at the door. A man carried a girl no older than eight by the arm, without the slightest care for the child’s poor bones, dragging her along while a woman trailed back, sobbing quietly. Jaskier himself was so shocked by the scene the music stopped - there was a pregnant pause, and the man spoke. 

“I offer thee, my lord, this girl,” he said, roughly shoving the girl ahead. She tripped over her own feet and fell on her hands and knees, small shoulders trembling. “Blind as a worm, but is good enough to wash and clean. My lord will find her useful in many areas.”

The Chapelain stood the girl up by her armpits, eyed her teeth, the palms of her hands. The girl cried quietly, face red in sheer horror and pain, but the man paid her no mind, inspecting her ears and her hips as he had done with the pigs and hens he had been given before. “This could be a good servant, sire.”

“Very well,” Vserad said, absently. “How much did Bill Fafner owe us?” 

“Five marks, sir.”

“It is settled, then,” Vserad waved a hand. “I will take the girl for five marks.”

It happened faster than he could notice, which was saying plenty - in one moment, all he could hear was the little girl’s labored breathing-

The next, Yennefer’s crystal cup had shattered in her hand, staining her dress and the linen tablecloth ruby red. 

“Oh, _shit_ -” he cursed, stepping away from the mess, “Yennefer, what the-”

“I apologize, my lord,” She said, voice cool. “I’m afraid I misjudged the strength of crystal when it is not enchanted.” 

“Not for that, Lady Yennefer,” Vserad said. “I shall call up a servant-”

“No need,” she raised a hand, stepping away from the mess on the table. “I am in need of a servant girl myself. What do you say I pay your Highness ten marks and you hand me over the girl?”

“That’s quite excessive,” Vserad frowned, his ugly pig nose wrinkling. “Ten marks for a blind girl?”

“You cannot tell what you don’t see,” she said, and Geralt raised an eyebrow. He knew Yennefer could be cruel, alright, but towards children was something new. He wasn’t sure what to think of it. “In my line of work, that is quite useful, as you may know.”

“In that case, I hope she serves you well,” Vserad nodded. “Consider the debt paid, Chapelain, and hand the girl over to Lady Yennefer there.” 

The man pushed the girl on their direction - this time, Geralt held her before she fell. She stared emptily at him with big, scared eyes, lower lip trembling. Her blonde hair was chopped short and haphazardly.

“Um,” he said, eyeing Yennefer in search of an answer - her eyes gave nothing away. 

“Geralt, if you would be so kind as to help her to my quarters,” she said dryly. “I’ll lead the way. We shall be back in a moment, my lord.”

  
  


“Yennefer-”

“Not _now_ , Geralt,” she hissed, punching the door to her quarters open and storming inside. A chair floated in front of him before falling on the stone floor with a loud _thud_ ; the sorceress herself began rummaging through her chests, pulling flasks and bottles with liquids he could not imagine what could be. “Sit her down.” 

He guided the sobbing girl to the chair, as gentle as he could. 

“My lady,” the girl said, “I promise I can be of use-”

“None of that,” she hissed, curls angrily storming around her face with her harsh movements. “What is your name, Child?”

“It is Sam, my lady-”

“Sam. Great. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sam. I am Yennefer. Do you know what I am?”

“A noblewoman?”

“I am a sorceress,” She said, and the girl whined in fear, curling into herself. “Now, there is no need to be afraid. I take that wretched man that brought you here is your father?” 

“He is, my lady,” Sam sobbed. “My mother is a seamstress, collected the money for the aid well before winter. But he came back home and spent all of it in the tavern in a single week, he did. Beat her black and blue when she complained too. But there was still an aid to pay, so he sold _me_.” 

A flask on Yennefer’s hand trembled, and Geralt had half a mind to worry it’d shatter like the cup - she took a deep breath, however, and poured half of three different flasks in a bowl. 

“What a great man,” she hissed, stirring the contents and producing a black cotton blindfold out of thin air, tipping the girl’s head back and applying the liquid on her eyes so quickly, Sam barely had time to react before it was done. Yennefer handed him the blindfold and left to rummage her chests again, pulling odd pieces of clothing this time. “Not too tightly, Geralt.” 

“What are you doing, Yennefer?” He asked, but her eyes were as sharp as his swords when she looked back at him. 

“ _Later_ , Geralt,” She barked, going back to her clothes. He sighed, wrapping the fabric around Sam’s eyes; she picked two or three coats and pulled the girl up from the chair, shoving all of the pieces in her hands. 

“My lady-”

“This is what we’re going to do, Sam,” She said, holding the girl by her shoulders. “This man right here is Geralt. He’ll take you to your home. There’s plenty of gold inside these coats to last you and your mother for a long time. You’re going to take everything you can and you’re gonna set for the Temple of Melitele in Ellander. Nenneke runs the place, and when you get there, you’re gonna tell her that Yennefer of Vengerberg sent you. Is that alright?”

“I- _yes_ ,” Sam swallowed. “Ellander. Talk to Nenneke. Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“Smart kid,” she muttered. “You mother is a seamstress, right? If she’s smart, these coats themselves are quality enough they can give you some extra gold. You set out for Ellander and you _don’t_ come back, you hear?”

“My lady- I-” Sam choked up, gasping. “ _Why_?” 

Yennefer’s eyes were hard and cold, but she held the girl’s hands between her own, squeezing them tightly. 

“Repaying a kindness once offered to me,” she muttered. “Go, Sam. Get away from this wretched place and make something of yourself. Tell your mother to take you straight to the temple, it’ll be safer for you both. I’ll know if she doesn’t. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Lady Yennefer.”

“Good. Make sure you tell her that then. Tomorrow night, when you are far enough away from here, you might remove the blindfold, but not a moment to soon. Do you understand?”

“I do. I won’t forget this, Lady Yennefer,” Sam said. 

“I’m sure you won’t,” she said, not unkindly. “Geralt, if you can do me the favor-”

“Yes,” he said, “But this conversation isn’t over.”

“It isn’t because it never began,” she said, tiredly. “There’s no conversation to be had, Geralt. There are things I do not wish to discuss, and things that are best left unsaid. Go on, then, leave me be. I need a moment before I head back to the great hall.”

“Right,” he said, clearly unsatisfied, but paused - and, in a split moment of bravery and courage, pressed a soft kiss on Yennefer’s forehead. 

The act caught her in surprise - she startled, yelping ungracefully before setting her hands on his chest and pushing him away. She did not blush, ever, but Geralt would like to imagine she would, if she could. 

“Are you going to be alright?” 

“I am, now _go_ ,” she said, flustered. “You’re wasting time. Send word when it’s done.”

Geralt took Sam by the hand, pulling her out of the room. As soon as the door closed, however, there was a loud noise of several glass flasks breaking, and a long string of expletives being shouted in Yennefer’s voice. 

  
  
  


“Geralt! Geralt, it is so, _so_ good to see you,” Jaskier shouted, startling Roach into a stressed shimmying of her quarters. Geralt cooed, but could not stop himself from rolling his eyes. “When the witch came back on her own, I thought- Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Where is the _girl_?”

“Yennefer gave her enough money to buy three farms and sent her off to the Temple of Melitele,” Geralt grunted, feeding Roach a carrot. The inn’s stables were blessedly empty, only his horse as occupant. “Fixed her vision while she was at it too.”

“That's- pretty nice, actually,’ Jaskier remarked, begrudgingly. “I admit I was not expecting that-”

“She did tell you she’s not fond of unseasoned children.”

“Very _funny_ , Geralt. Just because I don’t trust the insane witch that, might I remind you, nearly killed the two of you because of a bloody _djinn_ -” 

“Yes, you have mentioned it,” Geralt said, dryly, “Quite a few times.”

“And yet none of them got through your thick head, did it?” Jaskier threw his hands up in exasperation. “Whatever. In any case, I took the liberty of noting down a few promising names for you. There's at least four, the mayor and three farmers, and they’re all from the same area. The farmers, I mean.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, patting Roach’s neck. “The mayor didn’t strike me as someone who’d offer sacrifices to ensure he’d meet the aid. What did he offer again?”

“His eternal devotion,” Jaskier said. “And a barrel of ale.” 

“How gracious,” Geralt said, dryly. “I’ll check the farms in the morning, then.”

“The innkeeper has a room for you too,” Jaskier said. “Damn, I’m glad that girl got out of this hovel. Poor thing. No one _deserves_ that-”

“People hardly get what they deserve, for better or worse,” Geralt said. “Thanks, Jaskier.”

“Well, thank _you_ ,” Jaskier said. “The quicker you solve this mystery, the quicker we can get out of this wretched place.” 

Geralt thought about asking why _we_ , but decided against it. Jaskier did help him more than he helped himself, anyhow. Besides, he thought, listening to Jaskier frantic rambling as they left the stables, it was way too late for the drama it would entail. 

  
  
  


All three farms bordered the forest, which Geralt felt was particularly ominous. He has hardly one to believe in evil lands or cursed spaces - usually the source of whatever evil scares people away from certain meadows tended to come from a monster or two rather than the very dirt upon which things grow. But he’d put aside his beliefs when it came to Velen; either that thrice-damned forest was cursed in its entirety, or there was something truly evil living in its core, strong enough to poison the land. He could only hope whatever was killing those children wouldn’t be something as dramatic. He was tense, shoulders stiff and neck aching, and the _last_ thing he needed was to add more stress to his already frayed nerves.

And yet, right as he was about to step into the forest, Yennefer of Vengerberg herself stepped out of a portal, looking cross. 

“Ah, _fuck-_ ”

“Hello to you too, Geralt,” she said, dryly. “I was wondering if you perhaps could have _alerted_ me to what has become of Sam. You know. As per our agreement.”

“I- Yes, Yennefer, I forgot, and I am sorry,” he grunted. “But I really need to go into this forest now, so if you’ll excuse me-”

“That is not an answer,” she raised one eyebrow. “I could barely _sleep_ , you big oaf. What on earth are you doing?” 

“Yen,” he pleaded, voice hoarse, “Sam’s _fine_. I saw her out of the city with her mother. They should be in Ellander by tomorrow morning at most. Now I really need to find whatever is abducting those children-”

“Which is?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, sheepishly, and Yennefer’s face was a mask of mocking astonishment. 

“Searching for things you don’t even know what they _are_ , yes, very effective method of monster-hunting,” she said dryly. “Do they teach you fortune-telling in Kaer Morhen too?”

“That’s not-” he began, but the protest died in his lips; his amulet trembled so much in nearly ripped his linen undershirt, and he _felt_ it - a pain he couldn’t explain, a sorrow deep from within his heart, an ache nothing in the world could soothe, and he knew. Could feel the marrow of his very bones rattling with the realization that he knew what it was, this secret creature in the forest. 

And he had to go.

“Do you feel this?” Yennefer asked, quietly. 

“Yes,” he whispered. “Come.”

The two of them walked into the forest, only the sound of their footsteps crunching leaves, branches and bones to be heard. Not even the birds were chirping, nor were the winds howling - just a dead, empty silence. He walked with purpose, as if it was a call, and Yennefer followed closely behind; no sound to be heard, no conversation to be had, nothing but their feet on the ground- 

There was a cabin in ruins in the middle of a clearing. 

How they got there, he didn’t know - he pulled his silver sword out of its sheath, feeling the thrum of Yennefer’s magic behind him. She wasn’t Jaskier, and knew how to handle herself in a fight, but there was still a sense of unease that made him hold his sword with one hand and stretch the other, shielding her heart. And in other times she might’ve objected, said she did not need the protection, but she said nothing. Speaking was difficult with the heaviness of the air around them, tightening their throats with a sadness and a hurt they couldn’t shake themselves off. 

They stepped closer because they had to. 

The cabin was small and decrepit, pieces of the wood used as roof caving in, the door hanging open in its hinges. His breathing was labored - behind him, Yennefer had begun to cry. 

“What is- Geralt,” She called, distraught, “What is _this_?” 

“A Hinzelmann,” he answered, pulling the door from where it barely held itself attached to the wood of the walls. “Look.”

Yennefer went first, he followed soon after. 

Inside the cabin, there was nothing - no furniture, no bed, no shelves, no single evidence that once that place served as a home. But right in the middle, laying on the beaten dirt floor, there was a small shroud, wrapped tightly around an even smaller body, covered in wilted flowers from head to toe. 

Yennefer kneeled down, pushing the flowers away from the cotton of the shroud and unwrapping it- 

“By the- _Chaos_ , Geralt,” she whispered. 

Beneath the fabric, there was a boy no older than six. He hadn’t been dead for long, skin still plump and round, albeit pale; his hair was long and straight, spread around his head like a chestnut halo. His delicate eyes were set in a frown, mouth curled downwards, cheeks still tear-stained. He was beautiful, hauntingly so. 

“Hinzelmanns are made,” Geralt said, kneeling next to Yennefer. “A child is kept in the dark until the day of its sixth birthday, then it is burned at a stake in a ritual to create a god tied to a specific family.”

“Kept it the dark as in not made aware?” Yennefer asked, fingers tracing the boy’s cheeks. 

“No, actually kept in the dark,” He said, quietly. “The child never sees sunlight. It only sees the day when the time comes for the sacrifice. I haven’t seen a Hinzelmann in _years_ -”

“No,” Yennefer said, gripping the boy’s shoulders and pulling him up to her lap; he wasn’t yet stiff, and she cradled his limp form as a mother would’ve held a son, and despite the tears, her eyes were _vicious_. “Who would’ve-”

“Someone desperate enough,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Hinzelmanns will protect the family or community they were created for, at the cost of a sacrifice. Maybe those farmers came together, maybe they are simply collecting the benefit of a single family’s choice. I don’t know.” 

“I can’t leave him here,” Yennefer said. 

“Yen,” he said, softly, and held the boy’s hand in his own - so small and soft against his. The sadness was overwhelming, wrapping his heart in tendrils of abandonment and hurt like he only felt once before, in his life, realizing Visenna was gone. He could hear it - _go fetch some water_ , taste the freshness of the stream; he could feel the sheer horror he felt at being left on his own, wandering around until he found Vesemir. He was a child, nothing else, and he had cried and bitten and sobbed his way to Kaer Morhen, acutely aware his mother wasn’t coming back. 

It was _difficult_ , pulling himself out of that place. His heart wanted to succumb to it, cave into the sorrow and dread that gripped it tightly, skipping beat after beat. “What you’re feeling now,” he said, more to himself than to Yennefer, “It’s _his_ aura. He’s asking for help connecting you with the same feelings he felt, and I’ll help him, but you have to let him go.”

She eyed the boy, then him, and ran her fingers through his long strands, carefully undoing the tangled knots. “This feels wrong.”

“It is,” he reassured her, “He doesn’t want you to leave. But we have to. Come on, we solved the mystery. We can help him now.” 

“Let me just-” She said, laying the boy down once more - she produced a handkerchief and wiped the stains on the boy’s face, carefully rearranging his hair and crossing his hands over his small chest. With a twist of her wrist, the flowers came back to life; she covered him with the shroud and placed them around his body. It was _sad_ , but more than that, it hurt him beyond belief - Yennefer was all volcano rage and thunderstorm violence, but whatever _this_ was, it left her with nothing but a spark of deeply-rooted grief. She sighed, wiping the tears still falling from her eyes. “Take me away from this place, Geralt.”

He nodded, holding her hand and pulling her away from the crumbling cabin and its sorrow. 

  
  


“It’s a Hinzelmann,” he told Raquel.

“A _what_ now, Witcher?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. Crow’s Perch was packed with servants and guests, courtyard full to the brim. He avoided a woman carrying two particularly large hens and cleared his throat, eyeing the preparations to the Count’s birthday being carried on with the donations brought over by the citizens. Something told him they, however, wouldn’t be invited. 

“A Hinzelmann. A type of _servant_ , or something of the sort. It’s supposed to bring abundance and wealth to its creator, protect it from harm, at the cost of a sacrifice a year.”

Raquel paused, eyeing him intently. The tin in her hands looked heavy, but she paid it no mind, apparently. 

“Well,” she said. “That is some accursed thing, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” he nodded. “Today is the day it is the weakest. After it feeds on the child, it’ll be _impossible_. I’ll go to the forest tonight to-”

“Geralt!” Jaskier called, waving to him from across the courtyard and running to them so fast, he nearly tripped on his toes. 

“You!” Raquel said, eyebrows shooting up to her hairline, “You little _weasel_ -”

“Yes, I know, your husband, alright, threaten me _later_ , this is a _problem_ ,” Jaskier waved a hand. He looked nervous, jittery - signs of the apocalypse, as far as Geralt was concerned. “Geralt, whatever it is you found, we need to go and kill it _now_. The Count’s daughter has gone missing.”

Geralt looked at the bard, and then at the washerwoman - both looked bewildered and woefully unprepared for the situation at hand. Then there was a piercing _wail_ ; the kind mothers all over the continent would recognize in its immense suffering. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and said the only thing that could summarize the entire _mess_ he’d found himself into.

“Fuck.”

  
  
  


If he didn’t like the forest by day, he was under no impression that he’d like it better at night. Still, it was _horrid_ \- wet, miserable and sticky with dread and sorrow. He couldn’t wait to see himself out of that place, which was saying plenty in itself; it was the type of job, Vesemir used to say, that he had to have his whole attention focused to perform, not a single distraction to stray him from his path. 

It was just _wonderful_ , then, that both Jaskier and Yennefer were adamant about coming with him. 

“Why are _you_ here, anyhow?” Jaskier whispered, 

“I happen to be a very good sorceress in service of the girl’s father,” she answered, dryly. “How about you, Jaskier? Going to sing the Hinzelmann to sleep?” 

Geralt expected a witty comeback, or at least an attempt - it was quite hard trying to one-up Yennefer when it came to wielding words, but credit is owed where credit is due, and Jaskier never really stopped trying. But there was nothing, only silence. He slowed his step, wondering if something had happened to the bard. 

“It’s just- it’s so _cruel_ ,” Jaskier said, quietly. “What they did to this child. Why would someone- I just want to make sure this is a monster we can save.”

“It isn’t,” Geralt said, but his voice was as soft as he could make it be. “The child they used as a vessel is already dead. There’s nothing to rehabilitate or save. The only way we can put it out of its misery is by slaying whatever is left.”

The two of them quieted down, then, the weight of the revelation heavy on their shoulders. He kept walking to the forest, trying to follow along the trail of Lady Annabelle’s scent, which was getting weaker and weaker by the second - there was a tightening on the pit of his stomach, anxiety gripping his guts. If they couldn’t find her on time- If she-

“Halt there, Witcher,” said a voice right in front of them. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow, eyeing a farmer armed with a crude bow and arrow pointed at his face. He frowned, confused. 

“I’m looking for Lady Annabelle,” he said, “I mean no harm.”

“You do,” the man said, pulling the bowstring taut. Geralt remembered him - he was the one with five kids who looked like they would fall over of starvation, and not any of the farmers he investigated earlier in the day. _Fuck_. “You’ve found the Hinzelmann.”

“I did,” he said, slowly. 

“You weren’t supposed to,” he said. His eyes were gleaming under whatever moonlight found its way through the leaves, wet with unshed tears. “He hadn’t- It’s been ten years, and no one’s ever found him. Why _now_?”

“Because he’s in pain,” Geralt said, softly. “He’s begging for someone to help him-”

“ _What,_ ” Yennefer hissed, “Have you _done_?” 

The man choked back a sob, lowering his bow. The wind was cold, carrying droplets of rain that stick to his skin and hair. He’d be wet in no time. And yet, no one moved an inch - Yennefer behind him, taut with tension and rage, Jaskier holding his breath, and Geralt waited, patiently. 

“I was _desperate_ ,” he cried. “I had- three boys, I did. And each year there was less and less to eat, and less and less to give to the Count… I’d have to indenture myself. My wife was with child, so I- took a loan to pay up the count. And then we-”

“Deprived _your own child_ of basic dignity and then _murdered_ him,” Yennefer spat. “Like the _coward_ you are.”

“You don’t look like the kind of man who’s living a life of plentifulness,” Jaskier said. “Are you sure you just didn’t curse your child for nothing?” 

“I- We didn’t _know_ ,” the man stammered, “We had recipes, old ones, aye, but not- We took a guess-”

“You,” Yennefer said, voice oddly even, “Didn’t actually know if that would work. And still did it all the same?”

“But what was I supposed to do, _witch-_ Ah!” He screamed in pain when, with a twirl of her finger both of his knees were wrapped in swirling bolts of electricity - Geralt wrinkled his nose at the smell of burnt flesh, but held Yennefer by her arm. 

“Yen,” he called, “You _can’t-_ ”

“Tell me what I can or can’t do again, _Witcher_ , and I promise you this _bastard_ will leave this place feeling lucky I didn’t subject him to the same thing I did to you,” she hissed, and her eyes were violent pools of stormy violet; she yanked her arm out of his hand, turning to the sobbing farmer clutching his legs-

There was a sudden shift behind him - he felt it before he heard it, twisting on the balls of his feet as he felt the sudden surge of heat. 

“Get _down_!” He yelled, and pulled both Yennefer and Jaskier to the ground before they had time to protest, narrowly avoiding a fireball being thrown at their direction. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Jaskier screamed, but Geralt paid him no mind - he unsheathed his silver sword, walking towards the source of the fireball-

The hinzelmann was a small creature, skin the color of blood and eyes the color of rubies. Its skin was covered by a thick mucus, dripping on the forest floor, and his wide tongue barely fit in his mouth - its jaw didn’t close with the size of its teeth. But it was small, and it had frail arms; children weren’t difficult opponents, and as such, there wasn’t much of a fight to be had. 

“Yennefer,” he yelled, “Catch him-”

And pierced him clean through his chest with the tip of his silver blade. 

The creature stuttered, choking - the farmer screamed, but Yennefer scrambled closer, holding the Hinzelmann by its thin, slimy shoulders. Geralt withdrew the blade, and it began shifting; bones morphing, eyes setting, skin becoming more and more human, until there was nothing left of the Hinzelmann and all left of the boy who was cursed to become one. He eyed her with big, green eyes and coughed - a thick, black slime came up where there should be blood. 

“Shh,” she said, quietly. “You’re free now.”

The boy raised a hand to her cheek, holding it carefully, and his lips twisted in a small smile - he let his head fall on her shoulder, and a single tear fell from his eye. 

And then, as fast as he came, his body began to decay - skin shrivelling, flesh sizzling, muscles curling into themselves until they were gone and charred skin shrouded bones that, too delicate to hold, fell from Yennefer’s hold on the forest grounds. 

“What have you _done_ ,” the farmer cried, “I have more children! I need to feed them! How am I supposed to live now, Witcher?” 

“Miserably, like everyone else does,” he answered, still staring at the fragile, charred bones by Yennefer’s knees. She held up a small skull, tracing its sockets with a long, thin finger, then placed it down and stood up. 

“I’ll- Find Lady Annabele,” she said dryly. “I’ll meet you back at the keep.”

“Yen-”

“ _Don’t_ , Geralt,” she hissed. “Leave me _be_.” 

He was unable to say anything, watching her scurry away in a hurry. The skull still eyed him with its empty sockets from where Yennefer had left it.

“What is a child when you have seven more?” The farmer pleaded, “Why would you- Ow! No!”

Geralt turned around- 

Jaskier had knocked the man out cold with a kick straight to his temples. 

“Look what I found you, Geralt,” he said dryly. “Blessed silence.”

  
  


Lady Anabelle was found not three miles away from where they freed the Hinzelmann, unharmed, albeit shocked and scared - understandably so. Geralt had stood for an hour of baseless accusations and complete mayhem before the Count deigned to hear him speak. When he was done, he stood up from his chair, clearing his throat. 

“Now, Witcher,” he said, “Who was the one responsible for such a _baseless_ act of cowardice just to meet his duties to his lord? Or should I enquire each and every family under my command?”

He eyed around the great hall - Raquel, eyes watering; Jaskier, apprehensive, and the farmer, pleading without words, all of his seven children lined up besides their mother. He felt their gaze on him, heavy, waiting, and sighed. 

“It was Bill Fafner, your grace,” he said. 

  
  
  


Yennefer found him on the battlements, eyeing as they cleaned the scaffolds after Bill Fafner - or Drunk Bill, as the citizens called him - was sentenced to death by hanging. His whole family was supposed to be hung with him, but since Sam and her mother were long gone, he was the only one to meet his maker through a hangman’s noose. Geralt supposed he should feel bad, but thought about the farmer’s children being hung too and-

Well, he thought, downing the rest of his ale. Bill shat all of the scaffold when his neck finally broke, but Geralt was somewhat sure he barely knew what was happening, too drunk to even speak. But the smell of shit and blood was omnipresent, and when he scented lilac and gooseberries right by his side, he felt relieved at the small reprieve. 

“That was quite disgusting,” Yennefer said, absently. A soldier who was scrubbing the scaffold stopped to retch violently on the dirt, and Geralt scoffed. _That_ one had never seen war for sure. 

“Death is gross,” Geralt answered. They both leaned on the battlement railings, eyeing the now calm city below them. He had pocketed the money from the Count and given the money from the townspeople back to Raquel. She had tried to argue, but he didn’t need it - the Count eagerly paid three times what they had offered, and Geralt had a feeling that they needed that more than him at the moment. 

“Why did he come for us, Geralt?” She asked, quietly. He sighed, toying with the empty ale tankard on his hands. 

“I don’t know,” he answered, truthfully. “Hinzelmanns are _very_ rare - not only they are extremely difficult to achieve, but most people are put off by the act of torturing of a small child.”

Yennefer let out a snort. The wind blew her curls out of her face, and she closed her eyes. 

“I felt- In the end, when he held my face,” she said, “I felt- peace. Comfort.”

“It is a curse,” Geralt said. “And a very violent one, at that. That child was in pain ever since it was born. It was for the best.”

“Yes,” she said. “Just as Bill Fafner?”

“I don’t make good choices, Yen,” Geralt said. “Between Vserad torturing half Velen to find out who did it and seeing seven children being hanged because of their father’s stupidity, I chose the lesser evil.”

The lesser evil, yes, and the words were ashen in his mouth. Not choosing at all is also a choice - one with far more consequences than, most times, just doing what he thinks is right. He remembers Renfri’s cooling body on the mud, the moniker attached to him for reasons he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand. People ought to have forgotten already. But he didn’t - would never forget Stregobor’s weasel face and Renfri’s deadly and suicidal fighting. If he’d chosen the lesser evil, maybe she would have been fine. 

But he didn’t, and what’s done is done.

Yennefer hummed, absently, still eyeing the courtyard. The sun had peeked just enough behind the clouds - more than instantly, the place looked far more welcoming. 

“Yen,” he called, softly. “Don’t dwell on it. He found a connection to explore so he could ask for help. It takes some knowledge of pain to be able to handle what he showed us.”

“Children betrayed by their caregivers ought to stick with each other,” she shrugged. “You keep calling me that.”

“What, Yen?”

“Yes,” she gave him a small smile. “I don’t remember ever being called like that.”

“I can stop,” he offered, but she raised a hand. 

“It is fine,” she said. “I’m not sure I oppose it. Say it again.”

“Yen,” he said, amused, and she shook her head, curls swaying from one side to another. 

“I’m afraid I do enjoy this, Geralt of Rivia,” she said, and smiled - a true smile, the one he’d never seen before. “In due time, I too shall find you an endearing nickname.”

“Gods forbid,” Geralt said, but smiled too. 

He looked forward to it.


	2. THE HOUR OF THE STAR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if netflix can fuck around with timelines I CAN DO IT TOO
> 
> if you haven't read the books, are planning on doing so and are particularly bothered by spoilers, don't dive into this one just yet 
> 
> if you are reading this, welcome! the alternative title to this chapter was "I recognize Andrzej Sapkowski has made Creative Decisions (tm) but given they are STUPID ASS DECISIONS, I've elected to ignore them"

_“Do you have peace?”_ _  
__“I don’t have a father or a mother any longer.”_ _  
__“I said ‘peace’.”_ _  
__“How strange, I thought you had said ‘parents’. I was thinking about my mother only a few seconds earlier. I thought - Mommy - and then I heard nothing else. Peace? Who has it?”_

  
  


_ Today I woke up afraid but I didn't cry _ _   
_ _ I didn't even claim shelter _ _   
_ _ In the dark I saw an infinity without a present _ _   
_ _ A past or a future _ _   
_ _ I felt a strong embrace, it was no longer fear _ _   
_ _ It was something of yours that stayed with me _ _   
_ _ And that has no end _

  
  


###  _Kaer Morhen, 1268_

“You know,” Tissaia said, eyeing absently as a delicate silver spoon stirred her tea on its own. Were it any other circumstances he’d think it was a frivolous show of magic - how easily it was for her to manipulate things only with her mind. It was something sorceresses were eager and keen to do; show off their powers in the most trivials of ways just to make clear that they _can_. As it was, Tissaia de Vries had both her arms in casts, a situation which should allow for a bit of leeway. It still rubbed him the wrong way, anyhow. “I went to see Yennefer in Rinde.”

“Before or after the djinn?” He asked - the look she shot him spoke volumes on what she thought about his question. Geralt tried to imagine what would be like having Tissaia as a teacher - how she kept exhausting herself just to move things a centimeter to the left or to the right to keep it aligned, the severeness of her eyes as one of the girls said something she disapproved. He had asked Yennefer, once; she merely shrugged, and asked him how did he deal with Vesemir’s incessant snoring. 

If he thought that snoring hardly compared to being taught with an iron fist, he kept it to himself. 

“Seeing as the city was still intact, I’d bet it was before,” she said dryly. He swallowed a snort and went back to oiling his sword. It was another moment or two before she spoke. “I tried convincing her to go back to Aretuza.”

“What for?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You know better than me that she-”

“Absolutely loathes the place, yes, I’m well aware,” She rolled her eyes, but fixed her gaze on the fireplace. Kaer Morhen was a cold place, no fire ever seeming to be strong enough against the blizzards and the cracks in between the stone slabs making up the fort. And yet, if it bothered her, she said nothing and showed nothing. “I knew something- I had a _feeling_. That things would go bad. And I wanted to keep her where my eyes could see, where I knew she would be safe. Deep down I knew it would never work, but I had to try. Out of all of them, Yennefer is just-”

“The moodiest?” Geralt offered. “The most stubborn?”

“As a mule, yes,” Tissaia answered, smirking. “I just knew if it came down to it, if she thought it was the right thing to do, she would throw herself in front of danger without thinking twice. She’s pure storm, that one. Blizzard and thunder cracking the sky open.”

 _I know_ , Geralt wanted to say, but found his throat too tight. _I know_. He thought about Yennefer passed out in his bed, knocked out cold by a special belladonna brew Tissaia had prepared herself. She hadn’t slept in so long she was getting delirious - and yet it took the combined forces of him, Tissaia and Triss to get her to agree to the sleeping aid. She couldn’t find Ciri if she were dead, Tissaia had said, and it was true. 

“And yet,” she sighed, leaning back on her armchair. “I knew what I was asking of her was impossible. I wasn’t just asking for her to go back. I was asking for her to renounce the part of her that is pure chaos just to be safe. I didn’t see that may be what could get her hurt, but it is also what makes her who she is.”

“But it is so _hard_ ” he mumbled absently, “To see her hurt.”

Tissaia eyed him then - analytical eyes boring holes on his face. He lowered his eyes to his sword, trying to avoid the attention, but felt it still, heavy on his shoulders and neck. 

“Yes,” she said, finally. “But do you go out in the rain and expect not to get wet?”

“No,” he answered, because he did not. Yennefer’s chaos was both her weakness and her strength; to love her meant risking one’s peace of mind for all eternity. But if it wasn’t like this, then it wouldn’t be _her -_ her wit, her drive, her ambition, her passion. There was no cherry picking which parts of her were palatable enough to love. Either he loved all of her or not at all.

At that point in time, he had his answer already. 

  
  


###  _Gors Velen, 1267_

There were people hanging from every single bloody tree throughout the road. 

She wished she could say she paid them no mind, ignored their subtle, heavy waving as the wind passed them by. But even if she did, there was no ignoring the stench - decomposition sweet and sickly, rotting her nose, her clothes, all of her. She wondered if her glamour would mask the smell as far as Ciri was, riding quietly next to her, and wished it would. The last thing the girl deserved was to ride for hours and hours smelling death and the cruelty of man. 

She remembered the burning embers of Cintra and decided Ciri had had enough of that for a lifetime.

“Lady Yennefer,” Ciri asked. “Were all those people hanged where they are?”

“I doubt it,” she answered. “Too troublesome. No, they were placed there. Elves, all of them. Do you see how they’re all by the edge of the forest? It’s meant to be a warning.” 

“So they were all brought here to be killed, then.”

“The Scoia’tael seldom let themselves be captured alive, owlette,” Yennefer said. Ciri blinked her big, emerald-green eyes at her, pursing her lips at the nickname. Once upon a time she was the one snarling at a name given to her without her consent, but too much time had passed since then. “They would kill themselves before that. So I think they would just get the bodies-”

“Even the children?”

“There are no children,” Yennefer answered dryly. 

“But there are, Lady Yennefer. Look,” and Ciri pointed to a tree, where three small bodies swung softly with the blowing wind. She had half a mind to say they were dwarves, or halflings, or anything but actual children, but Ciri was too smart for any of it, and she deserved the truth. They had agreed on it - nothing but the purest honesty, no matter the cost, because Yennefer had had enough of bullshit, and Cirilla had seen enough to handle not being lied too. 

She eyed the horizon, where she could see the peak of the pointed roofs of the city towers’ piercing through the blue sky, gleaming under the sun. The day was bright and hot, bodies bloated with gas and maggots crawling in and out of the decaying flesh. Yennefer averted her eyes when they passed by the children. 

“I suppose so, then,” she muttered. “What a wonderful scenery. Are you glad you left Nenneke’s preaching now, Ciri?” 

“Not in the slightest,” she answered, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Where are we going, anyways?”

“Aretuza.”

“Isn’t that where you went to school?”

“That it is,” Yennefer said dryly. She had no love for the place, that was for sure. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and if the swaying corpses bidding them farewell were any indication, it was indeed time for desperation. She had promised Geralt she would keep Cirilla safe - it didn’t matter if they weren’t exactly on speaking terms, it was a promise she intended to keep. 

Why exactly she intended to do so she didn’t know, and decided it was in her best interest not to examine her need too closely.

But there was no denying, to her immense chagrin, that she took this promise seriously enough - so much so she had written Tissaia asking for her advice. The situation was as awkward as it was baffling - Yennefer rarely, if ever, wrote anything, let alone asking for _advice_ \- but things had changed. And she needed all the help that she could get. 

“And why,” Ciri asked, carefully, swaying atop her horse, “Are you taking me there?”

She sighed, rubbing one eye. Complete honesty, they had agreed. 

But it was so _hard_. She wanted to tell Ciri everything would be fine, that there was nothing wrong in the world, that she could live out her days sleeping as soundly as her nightmares would allow her. There was something inherently wrong in someone so young being forced to bear so much weight on small, thin shoulders. But there she was - Cirilla Fiona Ellen Riannon, the fallen Lion Cub of Cintra, riding next to her and chewing mercilessly on her nails. Yennefer swatted her hand away from her mouth. 

“What did I tell about nail biting?”

Ciri sighed. “Don’t,” she repeated, but her eyes gleamed dangerously. “You still haven’t answered me.”

For the _Gods_. 

“One would say the easiest way to get this done was to get you there blindly,” she sighed. “But you’re too smart for that and there is no use lying to you. Aretuza is under the protection of someone dear to me, who happens to be an extremely accomplished sorceress. Geralt and I decided you’d be safer in Aretuza than anywhere else.”

“Safer from _what_?”

 _I don’t know_ , she didn’t say, because the thought was frightening enough only inside her head. What she knew was that this girl, this clumsy thing with bony knees and pimples on her face, was the key to something bigger - something far more dangerous and far more powerful than she herself knew.

“Nilfgaard, mostly,” she said. A half-truth wasn’t a lie, especially if she didn’t know the whole truth either. “They are still on our tail, but they won’t storm Aretuza after you.”

Ciri said nothing, merely frowned. The forest spanned on along the road, bodies still hanging like overripe fruit. If she had stopped to count, she was sure the number would be up in the hundreds, but she didn’t. Knowledge was power, and there were some things that were just better off unknown. 

“In any case, I’m no teacher,” she said. “I taught you the basics and that was it, but you’ll need some proper lessons in due time. It is for the best.”

“But I don’t _want_ to,” Ciri complained. “I wanna stay with you and Geralt.”

“We hardly get what we want, Owlette,” she said, and Ciri scoffed.

“It’s easy for _you_ to say,” Ciri retorted. “ _You_ always get what you want.”

“Yes, because I’m always willing to pay the price,” Yennefer said, raising an eyebrow. “What _are_ you moody about?”

“Nothing,” Ciri said, and Yennefer rolled her eyes. Her horse snorted softly, and she patted its neck affectionately. The smell must be terrible for them too. 

“Cirilla,” she said dryly. “We have an _agreement_.”

“I- _Uh_ ,” Ciri sighed, burying her face on her mare’s mane. “It’s stupid.”

“I doubt something stupid would get you this worked up,” Yennefer said. “Come on.”

“It’s just- I have _something_ , right? It’s not just being a princess. It’s not just, I don’t know, my gift. There’s something about me that makes people chase after me and it ruins _everything_ . I just- I’m not _special_ . I’m _nothing_ , really-”

“I will not hear another second of this self-pitying blabber,” Yennefer said harshly, and Ciri let her shoulders slump down in defeat. “You are going to become a _sorceress_. There’s hardly enough space in your life for you to feel sorry about yourself-”

“And what would _you_ know about that?” Ciri exploded, reigning in her horse to stop in the middle of the road. It was dangerous for them to stay out in the open like this - Gors Velen was just around, and she needed some thick city walls around her as soon as possible. They were too vulnerable, and the corpses around them bequeathed ill omens to come. And yet Ciri stood, defiant, eyeing her with emerald-green irises full of hurt and betrayal. “Everywhere we go, _you_ are the one people look in awe. You are always the one on people’s minds, and you _always_ get things to go your way. I can’t even handle looking in a mirror-”

“Ciri-”

“And it’s just- You made me wear these _ugly_ clothes, and my skin is _gross_ , and you won’t even let me let my hair _down_ -”

“Cirilla,” Yennefer called, coldly, and pursed her lips at her protegee’s adolescent outburst. “ _Ride_.”

Ciri didn’t answer, still clearly hurt about whatever it was running through her mind. They rode in silence then, up until a bridge crossing a river that, thankfully enough, marked the end of the forest and of the bodies. As soon as they crossed the bridge, Yennefer pulled her horse to the edge of the road, motioning Ciri to stop alongside her. 

“Hold my reigns,” She said, cooly; the girl did as she was told, sniffing quietly in muted rage. Yennefer pulled a mirror from her saddlebags, letting it float in front of her face - she then pulled a small vial filled to the brim with a purple-colored gel, and began selecting curls that were not up to her standard and painstakingly applying the product until they were perfectly curled, set and in place. 

“Being beautiful is a part of being a sorceress,” she said, eyeing her reflection carefully. “The profession requires it so. Whatever is wrong with the apprentice, they will fix it - crooked spine, acne scars, amputations and what not.”

Ciri opened her mouth to speak, but Yennefer silenced her with a raised finger. 

“When I graduated,” she said dryly. She tried not to dwell on it, the pain of that final day - but there was a lesson to be taught here, and she decided it was necessary. “I was late for the procedures, for a multitude of reasons. They didn’t even want to do it, because there was no time to prepare the herbs to knock me out. I said, do it anyways. And they did.”

She inspected her hair thoroughly, making sure it looked carefully disheveled. The curls were heavy on her shoulders, and she decided to tackle the challenge of the thin, wispy hairs on her nape, trying to get them together with larger curl strands. 

“He took away my womb to make the necessary tincture,” she said. “And when he applied it, it reset every single bone in my body, every single scar, every single imperfection. And I was awake for all of it. I felt every bone being broken and mended. I felt when he opened my stomach to mess around in my insides. I felt my skin being pulled apart, my body burning from the stretch of my spine. I prayed to all of the Gods I knew the name to pass out from the pain, but none of them granted me the mercy. This,” she waved around her face, finally staring Ciri down - her doe-like eyes were open wide in shock, fear and something that looked a lot like sorrow. “I wanted this, alright. It was my way out to a better life, and it does come in handy. But I paid the price.”

She pulled another vial from her bags - this time, a red tincture she carefully applied to her lips. 

“I could sit here and tell you that you’re already beautiful enough, and you just need to see yourself as you truly are. I could also sit here and coddle your juvenile misdirected anger at something you do not entirely comprehend,” Yennefer said, finally pulling a vial that smelled strongly of lilac and gooseberries. “But you are not a child, so I will tell you this. You are being chased, Cirilla. The more attention I draw to myself, the less attention you’ll draw to yourself. The world is after you and since this is the hand I was given, I will use it to suit my own interests. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, Lady Yennefer,” Ciri said, eyes downcast. She could see the girl’s cheeks and ears burning red in shame, and felt a speck of guilt land on her heart.

“To be able to present myself in a certain way is a skill,” she said, softer now, and put all of the vials back in her bag. The mirror still floated - she checked her face one last time, glamour overpowering the lingering scent of death stuck on her clothes. “One I have had _decades_ to hone and perfect. You will too, in due time. But true beauty comes from somewhere else _entirely_ , and I truly hope one day you can aspire to be more than just _beautiful_. Who was your grandmother, again?” 

“Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra,” Ciri answered, quietly. 

“Lions have beautiful manes, alright,” she said, finally, offering her hand to Ciri place the reigns on her palms covered by a thick leather glove, “But _true_ power lies in the Lioness’ roar. Do you understand me?” 

Ciri eyed her, then - her green eyes were wet with unshed tears, nose red and slightly damp. She felt, not for the first time, an overwhelming need to hug her, cradle her face and hush her bad dreams. But this was not a world for softness. Either Cirilla survived or she perished, and Yennefer had promises to keep.

“I do, Lady Yennefer,” Ciri answered - and for a split second of weakness, Yennefer placed a hand on the girl’s cheek. 

“But you _are_ beautiful,” she whispered. “And as soon as we’re safe in Thanedd, I promise you I’ll let your hair down and find you some clothes worthy of the Lion Cub that you are.” 

The prospect in itself was enough to bring back the sparkle on Ciri’s eyes - The girl smiled softly, and they both went back to the road, riding side by side. 

“I thought I was just a stray,” she laughed, and Yennefer flipped her hair away from her face. 

“That you are. But Lion Cubs are just larger stray kittens, I’d say.”

“Maybe,” Ciri shrugged. “Can I use your glamour too?”

“If you want Geralt to wonder why are you smelling like _me_ -”

“Oh no,” Ciri squealed, frowning. “ _Gross_.”

  
  


Gors Velen was a city build atop ruins, and yet one would have to look closely to see it. Of course, unless there was a particularly observant soul that was just _determined_ enough to see the bones beneath the flesh, the chances one would look closely were nearly null. She could see it on Ciri’s eyes - Gors Velen was a breathing work of art, designed to impress and to distract; from its bloody past, from Thanedd, from people themselves. 

Buildings as high as five stories curved around the sinuous streets, lined with cobblestones made of different colors - pale pink, deep burgundy, sea-blue, teal and leaf green glimmering under the lazy afternoon sunlight. There were flowers dripping from every window, as vibrant and intricate as the wrought-iron shapes curling into gates shielding oval-shaped doors painted in as many colors as there was possible to see. The roofs curled upwards in spirals colored in blue and lilac, lacquered smoothly enough to look as glassy as the stained glass on the building’s windows. The smell of the sea was heavy, sticking moisture and salt on whatever exposed skin got shown. It looked like a fever dream, a product of magic, the home of something deeply mysterious and wonderful. Something like fantasy. 

They walked carefully around the stones, avoiding people with carts and old ladies sitting by the teal-colored curbs, gossiping with steaming cups of tea in hand and drenching the streets with the smell of strawberries, mint and star anise. Ciri’s hands were loose on her reigns - Yennefer cleared her throat, but the girl paid her no mind, too absorbed in the architecture to notice. 

“Ciri,” she called, and she whipped her face so fast, Yennefer had half a mind to worry about whiplash. 

“I’m sorry, Lady Yennefer,” Ciri said, quietly. “I was just- I did not expect this.”

“I know,” she said, softly. She remembered the first time she _actually_ saw Gors Velen - its colorful cobblestones, the pink and orange flowers blossoming on windows, the taste of the sea on her lips - and felt something warm in her chest when she looked at the girl’s wide eyes in joy and surprise. She wouldn’t say it, of course, because it was a hard world and Ciri had to be ready when the time came. But every night, before falling asleep, Yennefer would wish small wonders for the girl. A butterfly, a pretty flower, a nice stroll around the city. Just so her life wasn’t just hardship. Just so she wouldn’t lose hope.

“Gors Velen owes much of its prosperity to sorcerers,” She continued, as though Ciri’s happiness had no effect on her own despite warming her all the right ways. “They also take great pride in the city’s architecture. On that red house we’ll turn left. Must you step on every puddle?”

“I’m trying to clean my horse’s fetlocks,” Ciri answered, absently. Her hands were still lax on the reigns as she took in the dazzling shop windows displaying intricate dresses made of silk, crepe or gold thread, necklaces of the clearest aquamarines and stands with fruits she had never seen before. 

“It hasn’t rained in more than a month,” Yennefer said, dryly. “Whatever do you expect that to be?”

“I don’t know,” Ciri said. “Is that why you wanted to make yourself pretty? To come here?”

“Cirilla, don’t be naive. The city has its charms, but that’s hardly the reason why I should put extra effort into my appearance. No, there will be something important in Thanedd that I must attend to. The city is crawling with sorcerers of every kind, but this is a sacred space. They cannot-”

“Chase you if they know you’re a sorceress, yeah,” Ciri nodded. 

“Do not interrupt me, Cirilla,” she admonished. “It is important for people to know I am a sorceress _without_ me having to explain it. Do not jump to conclusions. Stop in front of that bank ahead, please.”

The bank was a curved building made of smooth stone the color of sand. The sign atop the wide turquoise double doors read Giancardi & Son Bank, marvellously sculpted out of a single slab of marble and inset with precious stones, and as soon as they stopped their horses, three dwarves came running in their direction to help them down and lead them to the stables in the back. Yennefer patted down her riding dress, trying to get rid of the dust and whatever sand had made its way to the black fabric, before turning to Ciri and straightening her simply pale-green robes, tucking her long braids back into the beret. 

“Stand up straight,” she said, tapping her on the chin. “Shoulders back. Align your spine. Hold your head high.”

“I thought I was meant to pass unnoticed,” Ciri said, dryly. 

“Passing unnoticed has nothing to do with being sloppy,” Yennefer answered, just as dryly. “And if you do not know what to do with your hands, for the love of the Gods, do nothing with them.”

Ciri nodded and clasped her hands tightly behind her back. 

Yennefer walked towards the bank doors, throwing them open with a flick of her wrist. 

Immediately, a stream of servants fell upon themselves to take her riding gloves and bag - the atrium had a high ceiling curving upwards in a stained glass dome depicting a galaxy, enchanted just so it appeared to be moving, perpetually birthing new stars and burying old ones, reflecting glimmer and gold on the marble floors and pillars, and it was packed full of clients, all of which stopped to see the sorceress stepping in. Yennefer strutted confidently to the reception, acutely aware of all the eyes on her, but before she actually talked to the wide-eyed receptionist, she looked behind her shoulder, winking at Ciri before turning back.

“I need to see Mr. Giancardi-”

“My dear Yennefer!” Said a voice to her left. It was Giancardi himself - short, sturdy, dressed in the finest silks and a thick beard as white as snow. A pair of small, delicate reading glasses was precariously balanced on top of his curved, thick nose. “What a surprise! What an honor! Come, to my office-”

“Great to see you, Giancardi,” she said, smiling. “Keeping well, I see.”

“Little old me? Impossible! I’m getting rounder by the day, with the grace of the Gods! But you- well, looking damn beautiful as always, eh?”

“That’s much too kind of you,” she said, motioning Ciri to come forward. The girl tripped over her own feet as she walked, and Yennefer suppressed a sigh. Adolescent grace. “This is Fiona, my protegee.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Lady Fiona,” Giancardi said, bowing down. Ciri stuttered, unsure of what to do - Yennefer tapped her lower back and she lowered herself in a half-hearted curtsy. “Well, into my office then! You lead the way, Yennefer. You know the way better than I do!”

“Hardly, Giancardi,” She said evenly, motioning Ciri to follow her into the maze of corridors and halls that made up the building. 

Giancardi’s office was three flights of stairs above the main atrium, dark and cool despite the heat of the day. There were pictures of many different dwarves lining the walls - she knew them all by name. It was his family, after all, and he took great pride in them. The whole room smelled of parchment paper, ink, old books and gold, plenty of it, metallic on her nose. They sat in front of his desk while he made himself comfortable on his creaking desk, sighing contently. 

“Have you made a nice travel to Gors Velen, I take it?” 

“The hung bodies of elves lining the road aside, just great,” she said dryly, and saw his face darken. He sighed, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. “What is up with that, anyhow?”

“The war, Yennefer,” he said, tiredly. “What else is there to be? It’s all war now, all everyone talks about.”

“I suppose,” she said. “Any letters for me?” 

“Not for the moment,” Giancardi answered. “Whatever I received was already delivered.” 

“Indeed,” She said. Ciri fidgeted by her side - she sighed. “Do you happen to have a book for Fiona, my friend? It’s been a long road, you see. The children get antsy.” 

“And don’t I know about it!” He said, standing up. She could see Ciri’s eyes narrowing at being called a child, but paid her no mind as Giancardi muttered to himself in front of his bookcase. “Let’s see, accounting- no, definitely- by the _Gods_ , that’s dirty- oh, here. Antique edition of the Physiologus! Monsters abound in these pages, if I remember correctly. Hope it will be enough to capture your imagination, young lady.”

Ciri held the book carefully, tracing its tattered edges and fraying pages delicately. There was a glimmer of recognition in her eyes - Yennefer raised an eyebrow. 

“You know that one?”

“Uncle Vesemir had-” She said, and cleared her throat. “Had one of those.”

“I see,” Yennefer said, softly. Ciri opened the book and appeared to be engrossed in its colorful and graphic illustrations, but she knew better. “Anyways, Giancardi. No one had any interest in my letters, I take it?”

“Not here, no. But in Vengerberg and Vivaldi there has been some interest in your correspondence, as well as your transactions from your private account. I’d give you the name of the unreliable staff responsible, but they were found drowned in a pond. A tragedy, you see.”

“Most definitely,” she said dryly. “But I know who’s interested in them anyhow. I have some expenses I need taken care of, preferably _without_ any drownings.”

“Name them and it shall be done,” he said, ringing a bell. A dwarven woman poked her head in. “Bring me a bottle of wine, Deanna. Two glasses.”

“I need one thousand and five hundred Temerian orens transferred to the bank in Ellander, in favor of the Temple of Melitele.”

“Fair enough,” he said, twirling his beard. “Donations for charity are not taxed. What more?”

“How much is Aretuza charging for tuition these days?”

“One thousand two hundred Novigrad crowns,” Giancardi answered; Deanna opened the door, setting a bottle on the table and two crystal cups before exiting quietly. “Plus the matriculation fee for the novice, of course. Two hundred crowns.” 

“Oh, wonderful,” she said dryly. “What else do they ask for? My left kidney? Perhaps a piece of my liver?”

Ciri snorted. 

“Everything has gone up, my dear,” Giancardi leaned on his chair, serving a generous amount of wine on each cup. “It’s the war. I guarantee you, though - nothing gets in Thanedd without permission. Safest place in the Continent, I’d say.”

“I’m counting on it,” she said, quietly. “Very well then. Pay two thousand crowns to the school, for the registration of the novice Fiona Riannon.”

“Consider it done,” he said. “Anything else?”

“I need three hundred crowns in cash. I’ll need at least three dresses for the Conclave.”

“Yennefer, please,” he waved a hand. “That will hardly get you anything in the city these days. I’ll give you a draft of five hundred crowns, and my shops and vendors are at your disposal, should you require anything for you or for the novice.”

“That’s most kind of you,” she said, nodding. “What of the interest rate?”

“Interest rate?” he raised a bushy eyebrow. “You paid our family in advance, Yennefer. In Vengerberg. Let’s not discuss this any further.”

“Giancardi,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I prefer not to do deals of this nature.”

The dwarf said nothing, merely looked out his small window. Outside, there was the sea and the harbor, ships swaying in the breeze. Any person would’ve made their windows large enough to take in the view, but not Giancardi. His office was more bunker that business, more safety than practicality. 

“I still dream of it, sometimes,” he said, quietly. “The pogrom in Vengerberg. If it wasn’t for you-”

“But I was there,” she said, not unkindly. “There’s no use dwelling on it now.”

“Sure,” he shrugged, “But that doesn’t mean I will forget. Whatever debts you might have, whatever favors you might call, you have paid them twice over getting me and my girls out of there safely. I too dislike deals which I’m uncertain on how to pay, so let me do this, and the favor you didn’t ask, but I’m sure graces your heart.”

“And what would that be?”

“A certain witcher,” he said; Ciri’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Whom, I might add, is like family to me, has unfortunately run into a hundred crown debt in Dorian a couple of nights ago. I’ll consider the debt paid.”

Yennefer paused, taking notice of how her breathing was labored against the stiff baleen of her corset. Of course he would, she thought, using every ounce of her strength to keep herself from worrying her lip. Ciri eyed her, expectantly, and she grimaced. 

“Well now,” she said, quietly. “I hardly think he’ll take _that_ well, especially if it comes from me. Stubborn as a mule, that one.”

Ciri said nothing, but her eyes gleamed in a way that suggested she didn’t think Yennefer was that different from Geralt at all in that respect. 

“That was some ten days ago,” Giancardi said, rubbing his beard pensively. “From there he went to Little Marsh and apparently then set out to Hirundum. Some farmers had a contract to offer. A monster to kill-”

“And peanuts to receive, which will barely cover the costs of the injuries he’ll get in trying to kill whatever it is,” she said, harshly, detesting the way her voice trembled. “If you must, contact the farmers and raise the bounty. That’s- well. That’s more than fair, I suppose.” 

“Then that shall be done too,” Giancardi said. “Now, with that out of the way, I have some matters to discuss with you. But I hardly think those are matters of interest to novices. The fate of the world, the pains of war, taxes, investments. Let the girl see the wonders Gors Velen has to offer before she goes on to her path as a conduit of chaos.”

 _She isn’t a conduit_ , Yennefer thought, looking at Ciri. _She’s chaos itself - she’s fire, fury, the winding storm, the angry waves of the sea. She’s love and passion and home and pure unadulterated rage. She’s the primordial ‘yes’ that bequeathed light to all of the worlds that exist, that will exist, that have existed. She’s more than just a tool. She’s reason and knowledge and light and dark and all that exists in the universe and beyond. She’s_ everything. _She’s_ everything _to me._

But she did not say that. Ciri eyed her with hopeful eyes, gripping the book tightly enough her knuckles paled with the strength. In that moment she wasn’t destiny, or chaos, or magic, or the prophesized queen to rule all the lands the sun could touch and darkness could hide. In that moment, she was a sixteen year-old girl dying to do some window shopping. 

If only her life were that simple.

“Yes!” She squealed. “Oh, _please_ , Lady Yennefer-”

“Of course,” Giancardi said, ringing the bell once more. “She should not go unaccompanied. These are dangerous times, I’d reckon. Deanna, could you send Fabio up, please?”

Yennefer said nothing, but eyed Giancardi as if he had lost his mind - he winked at her, and she sighed, avoiding Ciri’s expectant eyes. A stroll couldn’t hurt. The day was beautiful, the city was walled off and safe. Her heart begged her to not let Ciri go where her eyes couldn’t see her. But that was hardly reasonable, and highly irrational at best. 

“Very well,” she said, begrudgingly, pulling her coin pouch from her pocket. “Here’s some coin for you to buy whatever catches your eye out there. Watch out for scammers. Stay close to the bank and do not under any circumstances leave the city. Do you understand me?”

“Yes I do, Lady Yennefer.”

“Then promise me,” Ciri nodded, and she clicked her tongue. “Out _loud_. No promises are ever made by nodding.”

“I promise, Lady Yennefer.”

“Very well,” she said, pulling a rune from her pocket also. It was obsidian, dark as the night sky. “Keep this in your pouch. You remember the spell, right? Should anything happen, use it. Be back in three hours, _punctually_. And should anyone-”

She cut her sentence short when Fabio walked into the room, bowing respectfully. The boy was roughly Ciri’s age, face taken over by pimples that looked painful and swollen, the kind that would definitely leave scarring - and yet he was still a head shorter, or even more than the girl, even though she was standing in that hunched way she particularly detested. She eyed Fabio and Ciri next to each other, taken aback by the sheer _size_ of the girl. When had she grown this _tall_?

“Well,” she said dryly. “I hardly know who’s going to accompany whom in this situation, Giancardi.”

“I know the city well, My Lady,” the boy stuttered. “Was born and raised here; my father is a merchant, like his father before him. I know every crook and cranny and I respect Mr. Giancardi very much. I promise you, you won’t find a better guide in all of Gors Velen.”

She gave him a small smile and saw his knees tremble. 

“Very well, then,” she said. “I entrust Fiona in your hands, Fabio, son of Fabio, Grandson of Fabio. You are too be back here in three hours, not a second later. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. 

“Then off you go,” Giancardi said, shooing the two out of the door. “Fabio, get some change from Deanna before you leave so you can pay the girl a treat. On your way now, the two of you.” 

They nodded, scrambling out of the door in a hurry of gangly limbs and acne-prone skin. When they shut the door behind them, a thick silence took over the room - Yennefer sighed, taking her yet untouched glass of wine. 

“The lion cub of Cintra is growing up to be a Lioness of her own,” Giancardi remarked. 

Yennefer, throwing decorum out of the window, downed all of her wine in a single gulp. 

“If you want to pay your debt to me, Giancardi, promise me this,” she said, quietly. “If anything happens. If Nilfgaard somehow finds a way into this city. You are to get Cirilla back to safety. With me or with Geralt, it doesn’t matter. But you have to promise me this. No matter the cost, I’ll pay you, but you must help her out of danger if the need arises. Do you promise me?”

He eyed her with something sad, something longing in the deep end of his eyes. 

“I have daughters too, Yenna,” he said, pouring her more wine. “I promise you I’ll care for her as one of my own daughters, should the time come. Now, tell me. Are you really leaving the girl behind on her own?”

“As if, Giancardi,” she said, picking up her wine and leaning back on her chair. “She’ll be with my mother.” 

“Oh yes,” he said, raising his glass. “In that case, here’s to the prolonged health of Madam Tissaia de Vries.”

“Cheers,” She said raising her glass as well. “Because she’ll bloody need it. So, about those taxes you were talking about…”

  
  


Tissaia de Vries had two simple requests when she took the position of Archmistress in Aretuza - the first, she wanted a larger office. Second, that she wouldn’t be forced to look after adolescent girls for another single day of her life. 

“I am tempted,” she gritted, hands clasped tightly behind her back as she followed one specially disheveled Margarita Laux-Antille around Gors Velen, “To remind you, Rita, that this was _not-_ ”

“What you agreed to when you took on the position, yes, I _know_ , Tissaia,” Margarita said, scanning the crowd like a hawk for their novices. When the Chapter decided upon the conclave and Margarita said they would relocate the novices to the city and offer accommodation for the attending mages in Thanedd, Tissaia had half a mind to tell the newly-minted Rectoress that was a particularly bad idea. She didn’t want to intrude, however - not only was that especially insulting to Margarita’s hold on the school, it was also something that had, as of that moment, become very much not her problem.

That was, until Margarita knocked on her office and all but begged her to help find those rascals wreaking havoc in the city. 

“That too,” Tissaia said. There was a commotion on the central market - streets and alleyways full of deceiving seers and charming scammers trying to steal the commonfolk’s coin. She wrinkled her nose, displeased. A man kept yelling and announcing for all to see that he had, indeed, managed to capture the legendary basilisk. One look inside the rotten cage and Tissaia knew right away that was a wyvern, albeit a very malnourished one; she tsked, focusing again on the task ahead. 

“Whatever sermon you have prepared, save it,” Rita barked, angrily stomping on the street’s colorful cobblestones. “I _know_ I have fucked up. I _know_ I could have done better. I _know_ my _grandmother-_ ”

“Rita,” Tissaia called, catching her by the wrist. Her thumb found the skin of her palms, rubbing soft circles into the lines of her hands like she used to do when Margarita was a novice and she was almost ready to Ascend. It was a habit they carried well into her time as a Professor and Rita’s time living in lavish courts wearing gold spun dresses, looking like she had jumped right out of a storybook - a single moment in which they weren’t very important people, just two women trying to carve a place for themselves in the world. Rita sighed.

“These girls know nothing of the world,” she muttered. “What if they- What if someone _finds_ them and they don’t have the malice to-”

“They know more of the world than you’re giving them credit for,” Tissaia said, quietly. “They’ve known cruelty and suffering, most of them. And those who haven’t, have heard enough. No woman survives in this world without another woman to hold her hand, and they have hands abound.”

Rita said nothing, sighing. From the market square, there were the sounds of a loud commotion - something to do with the wyvern, she heard, but did not pay attention. Not when Rita was standing so beautifully in front of her, blue eyes wide as the sea they drew its color from, biting her full lips in worry. Not for the first time in centuries, Tissaia felt something tugging on hear heart and navel at the sight of her - and not for the first time, Tissaia elected to ignore the pull altogether. 

“They still left the inn when I specifically instructed them not to,” she said, finally, and Tissaia smiled, letting go of her hand. Her fingertips tingled. 

“You can have them flogged for that.”

“As _if_ ,” Rita rolled her eyes. “I intend on abandoning these archaic practices as soon as I can.”

“Archaic as they might be, they still work,” Tissaia noted. “In any case, we should probably-”

She felt it, then. 

The surge of magic was so powerful it tipped her off balance, wreaking havoc within her ears to the point Rita’s face twisted and swam in front of her eyes. Her hands reached for a wall, but she nearly impaled herself on a particularly thorny bush of roses, unable to tell the distance between herself and other objects. Rita looked no better, heaving dryly on the ground. 

“Did you-”

“Yes,” Tissaia wheezed. “What in the-”

“I can feel where it is coming from,” Rita said, grabbing her by the elbow. “Come on, we can still find it- oh, _shit_.”

The pulse was gone as fast as it had come - Tissaia breathed in deeply, wincing at her ears still ringing as she trailed behind the Rectoress. She could still trace the magic, if they were fast, but that wasn’t what made her bite her lip and hurry behind Rita. Whatever was powerful enough to cause such a pull was strong enough to-

“The squire did it!” They heard a voice squealing in an alleyway, “The squire killed the wyvern, get that into your thick head! I’m telling you, Fabio, if you snitch on me I’ll- I’ll turn you into _dog shit_ ! I know _spells_! I know-”

“Stop!” Tissaia called, walking towards the girl. She was wearing a simple beret over two thick plaits, as disheveled as the rest of her - there was soot on her angled face, still round with baby fat, but her eyes burned bright and dangerous. “That’s quite enough of that!”

The girl eyed her viciously, eyes burning bright and angry in a way that was oddly familiar. There was a boy next to her, shaking like a leaf on bony knees, face burgundy-red and swollen with pimples, but the girl was a _furnace_ , burning hot with anger and shame. Tissaia pursed her lips. 

“Why aren’t you at the inn, girl?” She asked, hands on her hips. Drawn by the commotion, Rita hopped behind her before raising an eyebrow. 

“I don’t think she’s one of mine, Tissaia,” she said. 

“Nonsense, of course she is,” Tissaia waved a hand, eyeing the girl once more, trying to peer into her mind- 

Once you teach a sorcerer how to read one’s mind, the next logical step is to teach them how _not_ to have their minds read. It was a difficult balance - it required absolute fortitude to be able to narrow one’s thoughts to a single focal point that had to be as unimportant as uninteresting as possible. Many full-fledged sorcerers could not do it; the good ones managed to blank their thoughts completely, offering nothing but empty darkness to those who tried prying into their thoughts. It was most definitely a skill a novice wouldn’t have. 

And yet, whoever this girl was, she had managed the technique superbly. Because while she might not have the skill to blank her mind, she also had the savviness of a sorceress who knew her strengths and weaknesses well. Gone were the scattered, jittery thoughts teenagers were prone to having; the girl eyed Rita intently, mouth agape, and there was a single, all-encompassing thought in her mind, and yet juvenile enough to not draw the attention of any other less skilled mage. Tissaia herself was nearly fooled, if not for the minute observation of a single thought, as pedestrian as it might’ve sounded, cycling endlessly in her mind. Genius work, really. She would compliment the novice if she could.

Unfortunately, however, she was less than inclined to pay any compliments to a never ending cycle of _“Melitele’s flaming tits this woman is so beautiful I am going to die-_ ”

“Whoa,” Rita remarked. “That one is _intense_.”

“No,” Tissaia said, “ _That_ one is way too smart for her own good.”

“What do you mean- Oh,” Rita said, widening her eyes. “ _Oh_ . So she’s both intelligent _and_ horny. That never bodes well.”

The girl blushed such a deep red, she looked like a ruby mask. And yet the thought was relentless, neverending. That she kept it up despite the teasing was a testament on itself. 

“I am sure the rectoress is flattered,” Tissaia said, dryly. “Tell me your name and class, novice, at once.” 

“This is a misunderstanding!” The boy squealed, only to be held in place by Rita’s vice grip. “She’s-”

“Shut up!” The girl squealed, trying to get to the boy - Tissaia waved a hand and she clutched her throat tightly, eyes wide at the pressure of the silencing spell freezing her vocal chords in place. 

“Well, I am waiting,” Rita said. “Who is this mysterious girl who’s managed to send a tsunami through chaos today?”

The girl’s eyes were wide in fear and rage. 

The boy licked his chapped lips. 

  
  
  
  


Tissaia remembered each and every one of her students perfectly. Their faces, their names, their aptitudes. She knew which kingdoms they were sent to, what lives they led, which lovers they took. It wasn’t as if she _planned_ on keeping that information - it was how her brain was wired, and it did come in handy every now and then. 

There were a few students, however, with whom the connection was far more than mere academic follow-up. Some had accused her of favoritism, and it might have been so - but there were a few students that she had a _connection_ , one-sided as it might’ve been. She could tell they were hurt or worried from miles away; with all of them so close to Thanedd for the conclave, she could feel their beating hearts as surely as she could feel her own. Rita had said it was destiny, once. Destiny would give her those girls, scorned and feral and angry as she herself once was, and see to it that they stuck together.

But Tissaia knew better. She saw it in mothers cradling newborns and grandmothers combing their granddaughters’ hair, braiding flowers into complicated plaits as their own grandmothers had done before them. Wrinkled skin on smooth flesh, the almighty power of time unable to defeat the fortress of what got passed from generation to generation. Tissaia knew its name, could taste it, feel it as deeply as she sensed Yennefer’s concern from miles away, bitter in her tongue. Destiny didn’t hold a candle to love. 

And it was love that had her leading Cirilla by a firm hand on her nape towards the bank. 

“You don’t have to _touch_ me,” she said, indignantly. The girl had every inch the inclination to be consumed by her emotions that Yennefer once had, before she managed to get a hold of herself. Tissaia would never admit it out loud, but she solely hoped Yennefer would breach the subject of the girl’s temper on her own. She had skipped on many things in life, but never on a good opportunity to say _I told you so_. 

“I don’t have to deliver you to Yennefer either, but I can be extraordinarily conciliatory,” she said dryly. “This is what you get for threatening people, kitten. I wonder what would you have done with the boy. Make him sneeze to death, I wonder? A terrible string of hiccups?” 

“I am _not_ a kitten,” Ciri spat, and Rita snickered. It was adorable, really. In due time, it would be impossible to do such a thing. Tissaia wasn’t stupid - this was a lioness in the making, sharpening her claws on the bones of her slain enemies. But in that moment, she was a struggling cub trying to claw at whatever was in front of her. 

It felt nice to hold her by the nape. They don’t stay little for too long. 

“A lion cub, yes, which is just a small cat, hence a _kitten_ ,” Tissaia said. “A kitten that, might I add, just called a whole lot of problems for herself.”

Whatever Ciri muttered next was unintelligible, but it sounded angry enough that it had Rita snickering behind them. 

“Hissing, even,” Tissaia muttered. “Whatever am I supposed to do with you.”

“Let me go, for one,” she barked, but Tissaia only laughed, squeezing her nape tighter. 

“Not going to happen, kitten, but well played,” she said. “I will be sure to report that to your mother-”

“My mother is dead,” Ciri said, with the detached longing of someone who was orphaned far too young. “Pavetta of Cintra. You know that. Do you get a kick out of bringing it up, Miss De Vries? Reminding the little kitten she doesn’t have a mother?”

“I don’t,” Tissaia said, stopping in place and turning the girl around to face her, holding her tightly by her shoulders. “I do, however, feel inclined to tell you a very important fact. Mothers are not given, Kitten. Mothers are _recognized_.”

Ciri paused, licking her lips. Her eyes were emerald-green and gleaming under the fading afternoon sun. 

“I don’t understand,” she muttered. Tissaia pulled off her beret, undid the braids, let her white-gold hair fall down to her waist like a mane. 

“Shoulders to the back. Align your neck with your hips. Head up. And listen to me carefully, girl,” she said, lowly. They stared at each other in recognition, in mutual understanding. Daughter to Mother and Mother to Grandmother. “You have forged mothers in blood, in bond and in destiny. All three were given, all three were accepted. But the choice is yours. And a choice made-”

“Is a responsibility taken,” Ciri muttered, eyeing her. Something clicked, then - Ciri looked in her eyes, mouth hanging open. “I know you.”

“Do you-”

“Holding her while her life drained out of her wrists,” Ciri whispered, eyes glossy and distant - she grabbed Tissaia’s arms tightly with a strength that was not hers, “She doesn’t remember your tears. But you didn’t want to let her go. The girl in the pigsty, sold for four marks, worth a thousand crowns. Her soul ached like yours once did, scorned by your own blood like she was. _Skylark_ , they called you, and you buried that name with the spoiled clothes stained with your father’s blood. It was a harsh world, and you wished it wasn’t so. She deserved to live, because you deserve too.”

The world slowed to a halt, birds stationary in the air, Rita’s eyes frozen in place, and nothing moved but the colors draining of the cobblestones until all she could see was the gray of the world and Cirilla’s green eyes. It was cold, chilling her bones into an ache she had long forgotten, but never forgiven. Gors Velen disappeared around her - it was replaced by a shack in shambles by the coast, the whistling wind, the salt burning her chapped lips, the cold wetness of the sea and her solitude, and the _fear_ , and the _fear_ , and the-

“I know you as your blood knows the insides of your heart,” Cirilla said - but it wasn’t Cirilla any longer. She was tall, long dark hair falling around her naked body, and she smiled with teeth coated in blood. She was chaos and fire and _fury_ , and Tissaia trembled before her might. “I have guided your hands to squeeze the life out of your father’s neck. I have given you the strength to push his body into the sea. I am _chaos_ , and hear me speak: three times you will gamble, once you will lose. It’ll cost her her heart and in repentance you will pay her in blood. Two cuts on the right arm, one on the left, like she did once, and you shall do it too. This is how I shall win, because you tried to tempt Chaos and Chaos will demand its fill. Hear me out, Skylark. This is how you shall leave- _No-_ ”

It was Cirilla once more, trembling pale lips and hands trailing down her arms to hold tightly on her wrists - she heaved, but her eyes were unfaltering, and she squeezed so tightly Tissaia could feel her bones creak- 

“No, this will not be it,” Cirilla said, voice cracking, “This can’t be- I can change this. I can-”

And the world tightened around them, skies trembling under her might, time speeding in reverse, the strength of future being rewritten, a blank page waiting to be defiled with her destiny - there was a song, as old as time itself, as necessary as air, and it pressed on her chest so tightly she felt she would explode-

“Beginning and end,” Cirilla said, “a mirror never twists its reflection unless it is forced to. You saved her once. She will save you too. Love is stronger than destiny. She will-”

Cirilla blinked. 

Gors Velen came back to life.

“What the- _oh_ ,” Ciri said, covering her eyes with her hands - her knees trembled, and Rita quickly held her up by the waist, steadying her in place. “ _Oh_ , Gods. I don’t feel so well-”

“It’s but a moment,” Rita said, quietly, and eyed Tissaia frozen in place with concern etched on her face - carefully, she reached to pat Tissaia’s cheeks dry. 

“Oh,” Tissaia said, realizing there were tears spilling down her face. 

“Tissaia,” Rita muttered, “Are you-”

“Hold the girl, Rita, please,” she said, taking in a deep breath. She knew what that was. _The elder blood_ , she thought, _chaos and fury has come for me_. Being right had never tasted so grim. “Cirilla, are you with us?”

“I- yes,” she said, taking in a deep breath. Color creeped back into her cheeks, and her eyes looked steady enough. “Can we find Yennefer now?”

“Yes,” she said, straightening herself. “The bank is right over there. Lead the way, kitten.”

Ciri didn’t object, turning on her heels and all but sprinting towards the bank building. Rita held her wrist, thumb finding the soft skin of her palm.

“What was that, Tissaia?” She asked. 

“That-” Tissaia answered, feeling her soul still settling back in her body after being taken out of this plane for a glimpse of the future - a future Cirilla had, apparently, just changed. Pieces of a puzzle forced into the wrong fit by her sheer willpower and rage. She tried not to think about it, but she could not avoid the awkward fit of her skin on her bones. “That was our salvation.”

  
  
  


Geralt had, on more than one occasion, accused Yennefer of fishing for luxury. He wasn’t wrong, if one considered a reasonable amount of clothing and a nice bed to be lavish. She supposed that for a man used to sleeping on the ground and eating whatever he had managed to put together with his rather appalling lack of cooking skills, her need for seasoned meat and a nice pair of pillows did sound very exorbitant. 

Despite her best judgement, however, she wondered what he would think of the room Tissaia had given her and Ciri for the night at the Silver Heron, which was probably the most expensive and luxurious inn in all of Gors Velen. The girl herself was a bit stunned - the bedsheets _were_ trimmed in silver, after all - and the room was large enough to fit two massive beds sitting neatly side by side. Not that they would need it, of course. Ciri would hop on her bed as soon as the clock struck midnight and the first nightmare hit. 

“I still think we should see Geralt before I enroll,” Ciri said, pouting. Whatever happened to her and Tissaia on the road got her stomach upset. Yennefer had ordered a light soup and was struggling to get the girl to get it down. She toyed around with the carrots and small chicken pieces, not actually eating anything. “I mean, when will I see him again?”

“This is not a death sentence, Ciri. Aretuza isn’t the gallows,” she said, more to herself than to Ciri. “It’s too dangerous to go there now.”

“But it’s not _far_ ,” Ciri said. “Fabio told me-”

“Fabio also let you kill a wyvern in the middle of a packed market. Forgive me for not really trusting his word,” Yennefer said dryly, eyeing the dresses that had been delivered to her, laid out on her bed. 

“He didn’t _let_ me do anything,” Ciri said, indignantly. “Geralt would be proud.”

“Well, I _am_ proud that you managed to not get killed by a wyvern, but I am most definitely _not_ proud you were taunting it in the first place.”

“But the guy kept saying it was a _basilisk_!” 

“And what are you, six? Must you try and prove everyone you are right?” 

“People don’t believe me,” Ciri muttered. Yennefer raised her eyes - under the candlelight, the soup looked oddly like the rotten mix she would feed to the pigs. Her stomach turned in on itself, and she sat down on the bed. 

“Cirilla,” she called, softly. “Look at me.”

She did, eager to look away from the food. 

“Not everyone is going to believe you, owlette,” she said, “And it doesn’t matter if they do. The people who matter will always believe you and that’s what’s important. What’s the use of a random stranger in a city believing in you?”

Ciri hummed, pensative. 

“In any case,” Yennefer said, turning back to her dresses. “It’s too dangerous for us to leave Gors Velen right now. This is the safest we can be. You could write to him, if you’d like.”

“That’s- okay,” Ciri said, looking for a quill and paper in the room’s desk drawers. “Will you have it delivered?”

“Yes,” Yennefer said, standing up properly and peeling off her clothes, piece by piece. “You should address it to Jaskier, however. Write it in verses, make him sing it out loud.”

Ciri giggled, shaking her head. “That’s a good idea. I’m sure Geralt will be delighted.”

“Remind me to hire a painter to capture the look on his face,” she said, finally wrapping herself up in a bathrobe and pinning her hair high on her head. “I’ll be at the sauna with Tissaia and Margarita. Once you’re finished with your letter and dinner, pick up some hair oils and one of the sturdy brushes and meet me there. A bird could lay eggs on your hair.”

“It’s not that bad-” Ciri rolled her eyes, and tried to run her fingers through her matted tresses with no success. “ _Oh_.”

“As I was saying,” Yennefer said, smirking, and made her way out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. 

As she made her way up the stairs for the topmost room in the building, the apartments shared by Tissaia and Rita where they had also rented the massive bathhouse for their private use, Yennefer became acutely aware that the next day was the day she would have to deliver Ciri to Aretuza. Her deal would be done - the promise she had made to Geralt to get the girl to safety would be withheld. There would be nothing standing on her way. 

However, the thought of becoming separated from Ciri, rather than bringing her relief, set a heavy weight on her chest. She tried not to think about it - forced the thought and the feeling down, away from her heart, and busted the door to the bathhouse open. 

“A rather melodramatic entrance,” Tissaia said, absently folding a pile of towels and placing them carefully inside a crate. Rita eyed her worriedly from where she sat inside the pool, and Yennefer raised an eyebrow, throwing her robe to the side while letting herself get into the pool. The water was steaming hot, and it prickled her skin, undoing the knots on her back and lumbar from riding for a whole morning. 

“What is she _doing_?” She asked Rita, leaning back to get her hair wet. The curls hung heavy, weighting her head down. 

“Reorganizing the Inn’s towels,” Rita said. “For the fourth time. In an hour.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “Tissaia. Don’t you think that’s a bit too much organizing?” 

“Don’t you think that’s a bit too much meddling?” Tissaia said dryly, but put the crate to the side and sat by the edge of the pool, dipping her legs from the knee down into the warm water. “How’s the girl?”

“Her stomach is upset,” Yennefer said, “I ordered a soup and she wants to write a letter to Geralt before she goes to Aretuza. I told her to meet me here once she was done. What happened?”

Tissaia sighed, rubbing her face delicately with one thin hand. It was the most unkempt she had seen her - shoulders slumped down, hair in disarray. Even in Sodden she held herself up with grace and dignity. 

“Yenna,” she said, quietly, “Come here.” 

Yennefer frowned, but swam across the pool, standing in front of Tissaia’s knees. She leaned over, placing her hands on her face - her fingers traced her jaw, the lines of her mouth, the apples of her cheeks. 

“Tissaia, you’re scaring me,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve grown beautifully,” Tissaia sighed, running her hands through her soaking curls. “Once you told me you wanted everything. And you got it too. A daughter of your own.” 

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” She replied. “Cirilla is Geralt’s Child of Surprise. I am merely fulfilling a promise.”

“Oh, _please_ , Yenna,” Rita said, rolling her eyes. “That girl worships the ground you walk on. She loves you so much one can read it in her face.” 

“That is not- I don’t wanna talk about this,” Yennefer said, stepping away from Tissaia’s grasp. There was a pressure on the bridge of her nose, eyes burning. Tissaia shook her head, unrolled the towel shielding her body, folded it nicely and stepped into the pool herself. 

“Like hell you don’t,” Rita said, walking closer. “Come on, Yenna. You can trust us.”

“There’s- There’s nothing _wrong_ ,” Yennefer said, but felt the first tear roll down her right cheek - Tissaia opened her arms, and then-

It was as if a dam had broken. 

Yennefer threw herself in Tissaia’s arms, and it took her a split second to notice the sound of sobs were crawling out of her own throat. She hid her face on the crook of her neck, feeling soft hands petting her hair, and she cried until her chest hurt; two years of repressed love, worry and fear, all tangled together, and she could barely breathe in between the sheer strength of her lungs pressing inwards, crushing her heart in the exhaustion she felt - she didn’t want to _feel_ , she didn’t want to _love_ -

“Shh, piglet,” Tissaia said, quietly. “Shh. It’s quite alright, now-”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Yennefer sobbed. “That a choice made is a responsibility taken. I _know_ I got myself in this- I _know_ she’s Geralt’s child, I know I set myself up for heartbreak for caring for a child that is someone else’s _destiny_ -”

“Yennefer, I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit and you know it,” Tissaia said, wiping off her tears. “If _destiny_ was what stood between you and that girl, you’d have ignored altogether by now. Enough with the sob party. What got you so worked up?”

Yennefer paused, unable to answer. There wasn’t a feeling she could pin down - a vague feeling of dread, more likely, crawling up her spine and crushing her throat shut-

“Oh, Tissaia, isn’t it obvious?” Rita said, softly. “She’s afraid.”

 _Afraid_ , she thought. Yes. How many decades had it been since she felt the tendrils of fear wrapping around her heart? She sniffed, wiping her nose on her wrist, eyes catching on the scars on her skin. Maybe not even for that long. But there it was, smothering and oppressive. 

“What are you afraid of, piglet?” Tissaia asked. 

“Nilfgaard,” Yennefer whispered. “All the other northern countries. Whoever is left of Cintra wants her head on a pike. Queen Meve told me she tried to outvote the other monarchs, but it was to no avail, they all want her dead. Whatever it is that crawls in her blood and makes her see things no child should have to see. She’s a woman, and I’m scared of that too. I just- I made a promise to Geralt that I would get her to safety. And I am, but- It’s not _fair_ ,” she said, finally spilling it - tears fell down her eyes as she hunched in herself, too shocked by her own admission. “She’s too young to have to endure this much. I’m afraid I won’t prepare her enough. I’m afraid if I don’t I’ll never see her again-”

“Yenna,” Tissaia said, seriously, wiping her tears once more and pushing her hair out of her face. “That girl survived the massacre of Cintra. She was trained by the last witchers of Kaer Morhen for two years. Cirilla could be handed a cabbage and she would make a weapon out of that. She’s more than prepared, and your determination to lie to yourself about your affections will only make her more likely not to return. She won’t find her way back unless she knows how important she is to you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you didn’t,” she said, quietly. “Not for the longest time.”

There was a pause, then - a pregnant moment where the truth hung heavily on them. Tissaia kissed her forehead and brought her closer, holding her tightly. 

“I think about you and I’m filled with pride,” she whispered, “and I think about those years that you walked around not knowing how important you are to _me_ and I’m filled with regret. But you _are_ , piglet. You are mine as much as Ciri is yours. Love is stronger than destiny. And I love you.”

Yennefer’s eyes filled with tears once more - she held Tissaia back, arms tightly clasped on her torso. 

“I love you too, Mother,” she muttered. 

  
  
  


Cirilla thought Yennefer had the most beautiful body she had ever seen. 

There was nothing to it, however. Yennefer was beautiful, yes, and her body looked sculpted in marble, but that was a fact about her, like her sarcasm and the wild curls of her hair. It didn’t draw any reactions from her aside from the thought that it was impossible for someone to be more beautiful than her - until she saw Margarita Laux-Antille nude, stretching on a wooden lounger, bare breasts exposed for the world to see. 

“For the love of- Cirilla, seriously?” Yennefer chastised her, frowning. “You’re going to drop all of my oils and I’m going to be _very_ angry at you. Come here, now. There are steps inside this pool, sit on this step right under me so I can wash your hair.” 

Red as a beet, Ciri made her way to Yennefer, placing the crate by the edge and feeling goosebumps crawl up her skin as she lowered herself in the hot water of the pool. Tissaia, who had been busy arranging copper cups on a marble tabletop, sat by the edge right behind Yennefer, using an empty cup to wet the black curls. 

“Dive in to get your hair wet,” Yennefer instructed. 

“You have _four_ different cleansers,” Tissaia said dryly. “Do you need _four_?” 

“My hair has _very_ specific needs,” Yennefer rolled her eyes. Ciri submerged herself, diving to one edge of the pool and going up for air before diving back again to her side, sitting by her knees. She had picked a cleanser for Tissaia to rub into her hair, carefully working the cream into the curls. It was beyond strange, seeing Yennefer allowing herself to be taken care of - but Tissaia looked at her kindly, dutifully washing the day’s journey out of the black tresses. 

“She swims like a little seal,” Margarita said. “Where did you learn how to swim, girl?” 

“Kaer Morhen,” she stammered. Tissaia handed the glass vial back to Yennefer, who poured a generous quantity right on Ciri’s scalp. She groaned in relief, falling boneless against the sorceress’ knees while holding the vial for her as she scratched her hair with the tips of her long, black-coated nails. 

“Shapely like a naiad too,” Margarita continued. “Will you give her to me, Yenna?”

“That’s the plan,” Yennefer answered. “Tip your head back a bit, owlette.”

“Should I put her with the novices? Or does she know the basics already?” 

“She does, but teaching her from the beginning won’t hurt her.”

“Most definitely,” Tissaia mentioned - there was a noise of pouring water as she rinsed the cleanser from Yennefer’s hair. “It’s good to beat out some technical vices. Am I supposed to do this _again_? Good Gods, piglet. Kitten, pass me the cleanser bottle please. And stop being angry with me.”

“Kitten?” Yennefer snickered, and Ciri felt herself burning in shame. “Already handing nicknames, I see?”

“She’s more like a feral cat, but I’m feeling benevolent today,” Tissaia answered, picking the bottle up from Ciri’s stretched hand. “Besides, it’ll be easier if she starts with other girls.”

“You have to let her run, though,” Yennefer said, pouring water on her hair to rinse the cleanser off; twisting on her back, she reached the crate for another oil and slathered it liberally on Ciri’s hair, taking the comb and painstakingly beginning to undo the knots on her hair. On the edge of the pool, Tissaia did the same to her. “Ciri gets antsy if she gets cooped up for too long.” 

“Oh, nonsense,” Rita waved a hand, downing the rest of her cup and pouring the last wine on the carafe on her cup. The cup was crystal and the liquid was a pale gold, bubbling and sizzling with gas. “Anyways, that _wasn’t_ what I was talking about. You’re not up to date on the news, Yenna. I dumped Lars. A pity, really, but that’s past.”

“Hm,” Yennefer muttered, particularly invested on a knot right behind her left ear. Tissaia, apparently, had a much easier time - after finishing combing through Yennefer’s hair, she pinned it up in a twist and washed her hands off the oil on the pool before standing and laying down next to Rita on the lounger. “And that’s why you want to get drunk?” 

“That’s one of the reasons, yes,” Rita waved her cup around. “He was lovely, really. Loved me so! But he wanted to divorce his wife to marry me - me, of all people! Monogamy and men hardly go well together, is what I said. I liked him, but I like myself more, so. Dumped it was. I would choose my freedom over him, obviously. But I’m sad about it.”

“Yes,” Tissaia said dryly. Half of Ciri’s hair was smooth - the other, however, was still a mess. “She won’t have her arm candy to show off during the conclave. What a disaster that would be.”

“Yenna gets it,” Rita said, waving on her direction. “We talked in Vengerberg about that Witcher of yours. I told you, Yenna, a love like that only comes once every eclipse, you can’t let that go that easily. But I get it now, I really do-”

“That’s hardly comparable,” Yennefer said, dryly, pouring more oil on Ciris head and running it through the strands with less gentleness than she would have in different situations. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Why?” Rita asked, “In two days time I’ll be locked in Aretuza wiping the nose of fifty-so girls. This is the best moment to speak of it. I prefer married men because they aren’t able to bother me. But sometimes they get too emotional. What a waste, seriously. Lars had an amazing co-”

“You’re done,” Yennefer cut her off, handing the brush back to Ciri. She floated back to the edge of the pool, placing the brush in the crate and carefully rearranging the bottles and vials as Yennefer instructed her too. She eyed Tissaia dumping an armful of clean towels on her lounger and beginning to fold them, and realized why did Yennefer’s organization skills felt so forced. That’s because they were - instilled by someone else who was far worse than Yennefer herself. She thought about having Tissaia de Vries as a teacher and shuddered. “Rinse it off and braid it, please.” 

Ciri nodded, sinking under the water to get the oil out of her tresses. It felt good running her hands through her hair once more. Once she emerged, Rita was knee-deep in a tirade - but it wasn’t the tale of how she nearly bombed Tor Lara with her anxiety over her ascension that captured her attention. No, her eyes drifted to somewhere else - to Tissaia’s gaze on Rita as she spoke, delicate and careful in a way she had only seen once, in the peculiar way Yennefer looked at Geralt when she thought no one could see her; careful and longing and pained all at once. She realized Tissaia was probably very old - older than Yennefer at least. And yet there she was, looking to Margarita as if she had hung the moon. She wondered if Yennefer could see it too, but if that was the case, she gave no indication. Sighing, Ciri filed that little nugget of knowledge away in her brain. 

“And you didn’t manage to flunk me!” Rita said, indignantly, “Your _first_ test as a Professor, my _last_ test as a novice. And I prevailed! Ha!”

“I should have,” Tissaia muttered, fondly in such a covert way Ciri wondered if she herself noticed. 

“But you didn’t!” Rita said, waving her arm. “And that’s why I now deserve to get _glaringly_ drunk-”

“In front of the novice?” she sighed. “When _I_ was rectoress-”

“Everyone was miserable and joy could only walk into Thanedd with a heavily armed escort, yes,” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “We remember-”

“We wouldn’t forget even if we wanted to!” Rita wheezed, “Ah, to hell with it. Listen carefully, Cirilla, your lessons begin now. Here’s the first one: an enchantress _always_ takes action. She gets up and she takes life by the _neck_ and she acts on it, consequences be damned. You’ll only regret the things that you _haven’t_ done-”

“That is terrible advice,” Tissaia said, and Yennefer grimaced. 

“Cirilla, instead of learning how to accidentally blow up Tor Lara because of a broken heart, could you be so kind as to bring us another carafe of wine?” Yennefer said, waving a hand. Ciri stood up, picking up the empty carafe, and went towards the door. 

Her mind was utterly made up. 

  
  


“What do you mean,” Yennefer shrieked, “She’s _gone_?”

The innkeeper’s knees shook like bamboos in the wind as he was stared down by Yennefer’s absolutely murderous face. His back against the wall, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“And you _obeyed_ her?” Yennefer yelled so loudly, all the patrons having dinner in the very lovely tavern stopped mid-chew to see the wild-looking sorceress grilling the poor man. 

“She spoke just like you, madam!” The innkeeper squealed, “Eyes and face and everything! She said, _open the door,_ and I said, what for, madam? And she said she was conducting very important business on behalf of Madam de Vries- She even wrote a letter-”

“Give me that,” Yennefer said, but Tissaia was faster - she picked the piece of paper the man had between his trembling fingers and read it out loud. 

“Lady Yennefer,” she read, “Forgive me. I’m riding to Hirundum because I want to see Geralt before I start school. I must do this. I know you’ll punish me but I don’t want to regret what I haven’t done. I have to take life by its neck. Don’t be mad at me, Ciri. Postscript,” she said, and a giggle found its way out of her throat - she snorted in disbelief. “Postscript, tell Madam Rita I’m more than capable of wiping my own nose.” 

“That little-” Yennefer cursed, but whatever complaints she had were drowned by the sound of Tissaia absolutely _cackling,_ howling in laughter with such a strength she folded in half, hand slapping her knee. 

“I knew it!” She laughed, “I _knew_ it! I told you _so_!”

“Oh _Gods_ ,” Rita said, giggling out of sheer nervousness and recognition, “Oh dear Gods I’ll have to teach _this_ girl-”

“Fucking _good_ on you, Yenna!” Tissaia said, clapping. “Of _course_ you’d get the stubborn and moody child of surprise-”

“Shut up please and thank you!” Yennefer yelled, stomping outside of the Inn for her horse, the two woman following suit. Tissaia could barely inhale any air, amazed by the Ciri’s power and cunning to fool Yennefer of Vengerberg twice in the same day.

“I will _not_ shut up, piglet, because this is-”

She never had the time to tell what that was, because there was a lighting strike oddly shaped like an Yggdrasil tree, the rumble of thunder, and the moon became huge and bloody high in the sky. 

She blinked and she could hear it - knights in corpse horses, running through the forest edging the Inn. 

The Wild Hunt. 

_We’ve taken what’s theirs_ , Tissaia thought, feeling her spine freeze in place, _we’ve taken what’s theirs and now they have come to collect._

She knew what they wanted. 

“Yennefer,” she called, concerned, smile dropping from her face and worry crawling into her heart, “If you care for that child, you better _run_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed my ENTIRE PLANNING for this story after i finished Time of Contempt (unpopular opinion time I did not like it)
> 
> Tissaia de Vries will only die over MY DEAD BODY 
> 
> "is cirilla changing canon out of spite and fueled by hatred a self insert then" yes 
> 
> if any of you have a discord invite for a serve where I can rant about that dumpster fire I'd be eternally grateful


	3. LET HER DEAL WITH IT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly had a whole laundry list of excuses for this delay but truth is, there was carnival. that's it. 
> 
> please be kind i hate writing action
> 
> TW: very graphic depictions of decaying bodies

_“The thing is that "who am I?" causes a need. And how is one supposed to satisfy such need? Whoever asks themselves that is rendered incomplete.”_

  
  


_I cut off my wings_

_See my scars_

_I saw God in depression_

_I helped him with his crises_

_  
  
_

  
  


###  _ Red Port, 1267 _

“Oh  _ please _ , don’t look at me like that,” Meve said. “I’m hardly dead now, am I?”

Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia was a woman of striking beauty, known across all the kingdoms of the north and whispered about in Nilfgaard also. Yennefer remembered the girls back in Aretuza fawning over paintings of noblewomen of the past, noting down as if they were out shopping - I’ll ask for the Queen of Aedirn’s nose, they’d say, and the Princess of Temeria’s jaw, and the color of the Duchess’ of Velen eyes… 

Yennefer was never one to be humble, but in comparison to her classmate’s requests, she might as well be a bloody Melitele priestess. Her glamour was enough. But Meve needed none of it to be as beautiful as any archmage of the Brotherhood - golden hair spinning down to her waist in soft curls, bright blue eyes and shapely, albeit severe eyebrows. Her picture would be gracing the hallways of Aretuza, if Aretuza still existed to have hallways and eager novices huddling together in flocks through them. What was most striking about her, however, was not the beauty of her eyes, but their sheer strength. Meve had a backbone of steel and a heart made of iron.

So unlike her mother. Praised be chaos for small victories. 

“Your majesty,” Yennefer said, bowing ever so slightly. Meve scoffed, pulling herself up to sit with her back to the massive headboard of the bed. How and  _ why  _ did they put such a monstrosity of a piece of furniture in such a dead end as Red Port fort was beyond her. In the past such questions would have puzzled her - understanding why people, monarchs even more so, did what they did was crucial to her livelihood as a sorceress. Yennefer had many flaws, but not being observant was never one of them. 

As it was, she was just so tired. 

“Yenna, for the love of Melitele’s creaky old cunt, cut that bullshit,” Meve said. The room smelled of sweat and the sickly sweet scent of healing wounds - one wouldn’t have to look for long to see where it was coming from, however. Because whoever attacked her went straight to her famed complexion, the high cheekbones and full lips - there were two gashes on her face, one above her right eyebrow and one from her cheekbone all the way down her chin, splitting her lips. It felt painful and looked like an absolute monstrosity, but if Meve was bothered by it, she definitely did not let it show. 

“You won the battle,” Yennefer said, taking off her riding gloves. The room looked haphazardly put together, as if her army had not yet prepared for the possibility of their queen perishing anytime soon, let alone so gruesomely, and had to scramble to come up with a place where she could heal. Maybe a sturdy spine skipped a generation or two, but she could see it - even drowning under the thick blankets of the bed, even with half her face swollen and colored purple, black and blue, Meve was a Ruler, born for the throne, and she would not go down easily.

“But not the war,” Meve noted, reaching for a carafe of wine right by the bed. She poured a generous glass and raised it high. “Which means I’m still not back on my throne. So no queen here to be seen, just an old friend, I hope. Come sit by me, Yenna. I hope you don’t mind sharing a glass. Can you believe this is the only decent glass in this hovel?”

“I can, actually,” she said, quietly sitting down by the end of the bed. Meve scooted closer, crossing her legs under her blankets and handing her the wine. “How are you?”

“High on healing salves and pain potions,” Meve said. “That’s not why I told your witcher to summon you here. How are  _ you? _ ”

“You’re the one with half a face split off, Meve,” Yennefer said, staring at her nails. They were bitten down to a bloody pulp, as they were when she was ten and a hunchback only receiving warmth from pigs raised for slaughter. Her grasp on Chaos was precarious as it was, but the past few weeks had been hell on earth.

“Me? Pfft,” Meve said, downing more of the wine before handing her the glass. “Both my boys are safe and sound, and my mother has been dead for so long I’m sure her bones are dust by now. So it goes. How are  _ you _ holding up?”

Yennefer didn’t answer, drawing in a shaky breath, pinching the bridge of her nose to reign in her emotions. 

“How’s Madam Tissaia?” Meve said, finally. 

“Stable,” Yennefer said. “We don’t know- Well. She’s alive, she’s breathing. Keira thinks she’ll make it.”

“Right,” Meve nodded. “Any leads on Ciri?” 

Yennefer closed her eyes and shook her head. 

“Philippa is looking into some clues. Geralt was too before he got caught up in the battle.”

“Ah, yes,” Meve said, picking up the glass once more. If she could smile, her lips would twist into a smirk - as it was, she only had a mischievous gleam in her eyes as indication of her intent. “Did you know I knighted him?” 

“Did you now?”

“Yes,” Meve said, “And I named him  _ Geralt of Rivia _ .”

The snort coming up her throat was unstoppable - Meve smiled, placing the glass on her bedside table to hold her hands between her own. 

“You’re going to find her, Yenna,” She said, quietly. “Mother to mother, my heart tells me so. You will.”

Yennefer found herself too choked up to answer. Instead, she raised her hand to the massive wound on Meve’s face. 

“It’s not infected,” she said, quietly. “But it’ll scar. I can-”

“No,” Meve said. And she was made of pure iron, stone carved out in the likeliness of a warrior goddess; Yennefer felt at home just as she did whenever she found a woman so powerful she had to carve out a place for herself in this world so she could breathe. Similar souls and finding solace in their solitude. “How do I look now? Be honest with me.”

“Swollen,” Yennefer deadpanned - Meve laughed, a throaty, painful thing, and she smiled too. “Dangerous. Feral. Bigger than life. Like a berserker hungry for the blood of those who have wronged you.”

“Will I strike fear in the hearts of my enemies?”

“Most definitely.”

“Demavend is  _ so  _ worried,” She said, rolling her one good eye. “He thinks this was deliberate to see me break. Attacking my beauty! I don’t think he’s wrong. Maybe they did want to make me cower, hide my face in shame, and thought my spirit would be weakened if my beauty was gone. The  _ gall _ of men, Yennefer! To think I would yield to  _ this. _ No, I shall wear this scar proudly, because I could not scar if I were dead. And this-” 

And she pointed to her face, purple black and blue, eyes as piercing as diamonds the color of midday sky, her blonde hair tinted red with her blood, eyebrows furrowed in concentration; Yennefer had seen Meve at many different points in her life, but this was her most wild, most feral, most powerful. A woman with nothing left to lose is dangerous. 

A woman who hungers for  _ everything _ even more so.

Meve licked her lips softly, and gave her a crooked smile.

“This scar right here,” she said, “means I  _ won _ .” 

###    
  


###  _ Vengerberg, 1254 _

“You never did tell me what happened in Blaviken,” Jaskier said, softly. 

The bard had ale foam on his upper lip, catching on the three-day old beard. Jaskier had always prided himself in his appearance, but there was only so much peacocking that could endure four straight days of travel and not a stream found for them to bathe. Geralt wasn’t exactly the most observant person when it came to smells - he was a witcher and tended to be covered in guts more often than not - but the musky scent of sweat and road clung to his skin just enough to be uncomfortable. 

As it was, he and Jaskier had found an inn by the outskirts of Vengerberg, ordered a bath, food and drink, and tried to decide if either hunger or hygiene was the most urgent need to be taken care of first. 

Hunger won. The two of them hunched over a steaming bowl of stew and a tankard of ale as they waited for a bath to be drawn. But where Geralt was content merely having his real proper meal in days, Jaskier needed to fill the silence with mindless - or, in case, not so mindless chatter. 

“There’s nothing to tell,” Geralt grunted. “Don’t mention it again.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing it,” Jaskier said, apologetic, “But you keep- I mean. You know what? Nevermind-”

“I keep doing what?” He asked, raised an eyebrow. Jaskier toyed around with his stew, shifting fatty pieces of meat and potatoes around with his spoon. He didn’t eat fat if he could avoid it - something about the texture, or so he said. There were bits and pieces about Jaskier scattered around in his mind - most about how insufferable he could be on a good day, but also about how caring and carefree with his affection he was. Most of all, it was how particular Jaskier was with food that really had to force its way into his memory, because the bard would turn into a balloon if he even as much as looked towards a peanut. 

“Talking in your sleep,” Jaskier said, quietly. “You keep calling on- what is it-  _ Rendri _ ?”

“Renfri,” he said, and there was something cold and hard on his spine, blood rushing through his ears. He could taste it - the bitterness of her lips, the ale on her tongue, as if he had just kissed her for the last time. It’d been years, decades even. Memory was supposed to fade with time, or so he was told, but maybe that’s one of the mercies of humanity that he was denied. 

He’d remember.

“Yes,” Jaskier said. “That. I’m not saying I’m  _ concerned _ -”

“This is none of your business, Jaskier,” He cut off, dryly. “I refused to make a choice and destiny had my ass handed over to me. That’s it.”

Jaskier, for a miracle, said nothing - staring out the window, stirring his stew, lost in thought. Geralt might’ve even thought it was the end of it, if he was a more stupid man. But he could see the thought bubbling under Jaskier’s skin, thrumming, waiting-

“Hey, look,” he pointed out, “A cockroach.”

Sure enough - by the crude wood window of the tavern, in all its glory, a big, round, brown cockroach minding its business. For someone who slept regularly in the outdoors it wasn’t a concern, but Geralt figured that didn’t sing the praises about the establishment’s cleanliness standards. 

“Hmm,” he hummed, not sure of what about the insect was particularly note-worthy. 

“You see,” Jaskier said, “I was thinking-”

“Melitele preserve us,” Geralt said, and hid his grin at Jaskier’s indignant face behind his tankard of ale. 

“First of all, fuck you,” Jaskier said. “Second, I’m going for something here, right? Because that cockroach over there has a destiny like we all do, I’d say. It’ll get killed someday, maybe in this tavern, maybe in another one, maybe in the streets. What can this cockroach do to avoid destiny? Nothing. It has no choice.”

“Your point?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“The tragedy of humanity,” Jaskier said, absently, ignoring the not-so-subtle drag, “I’d say, is that we are not so different from that cockroach when it comes to avoiding destiny, but we’re doomed to be aware of its immutability. The  _ awareness _ is the villain here, not the actual destiny itself. Maybe we could stand to learn a bit more from this cockroach- oh fucking  _ shit no fucking way _ -”

Geralt didn’t have to look back to see who had just walked into the inn. 

The smell of lilac and gooseberries was overwhelming. 

“Good afternoon, boys,” Yennefer said, sitting on an empty chair by their table and wrinkling her nose. She looked beautiful, as always - wild curls tied up in a high ponytail, high-collared vest embroidered with pearls and a sensible walking skirt. She was out for business, he could tell, and yet, there wasn’t a single patron in the tavern that didn’t very nearly break their necks trying to get a glimpse of the sorceress in their midst. “You smell foul.”

“What- What the-” Jaskier stammered, choking on his ale, “What are you doing  _ here _ , witch?!”

“"Oh haven't you heard?” She said dryly. “I've moved here. The city is so welcoming, they even started calling me Yennefer of Vengerberg. It's a recent thing though, I wouldn’t expect you to catch on it. It’s only been going on for the past couple of decades or so.”

“Sarcasm is not a good look on you, Yen,” Geralt said, amused. 

“Everything is a good look on me, Geralt,” She waved a hand while Jaskier struggled to regain his footing, stammering to himself over his drink. “I could make the filth on your skin look dashing. What is up with it, by the way? Did the two of you forget how to bathe?”

“Geralt didn’t want to stop all the way down from Gulet,” Jaskier muttered, “And all of the streams were muddy and dirty because of the rain.”

“Poor souls,” Yennefer said, but didn’t seem to be sorry at all. She crossed her hands on her lap, leaning back on her chair. “Any chance you’ll be clean in the near future? I have a job for you.”

“Me?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes, if you want, but I was thinking mostly Jaskier,” She said, and made a face - if Geralt would guess, it was because the necessary words to say she actually needed Jaskier for something were sour in her mouth. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m  _ not _ available,” Jaskier said. “Not for  _ you _ at least. You can go your merry way now-”

“I’d rather have deafening tinnitus for the rest of my life than hire  _ you _ for any situation where I should have need of a bard,” she scoffed. “No, consider this a bit of networking. I used to be King Virfuril’s advisor a while ago. His son Demavend is to be married on Saturday, but the bard they hired vanished mysteriously. Since you’re not interested-”

“Hey, I did not say  _ that _ !” Jaskier protested. “I said I wasn’t available for  _ you _ , not for the  _ King _ -”

“The Queen,” Yennefer said. “I’d be surprised if Virfuril could wipe his ass on his own, nowadays.”

“Is it really syphilis?” Geralt asked, wiping his bowl clean of stew with whatever little stale bread the inn had given him. Yennefer frowned, but kept quiet. “That’s the rumour, at least.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “Or maybe tuberculosis, but I think that’s unlikely. Dementia, perhaps. His mother had it, it’s not so far-fetched. Or maybe he just assumed how imbecile he is. In any case, this hasn’t been my problem in over ten years, and I’m not about to worry about it  _ now _ , but the Queen required my presence for the wedding, and I still respect her enough to accept her invitation. That woman is a saint.”

“And because of her sainthood, I will accept her most gracious request,” Jaskier said. “What a great honor! To perform at the highest court in Aedirn! Such a magnanimous opportunity for this humble bard!” 

Yennefer said nothing, but her face spoke volumes on what she thought about Jaskier’s honor and humility. 

“You said there was a job for me too,” Geralt said. “What about it? The queen wants me to dance a jig for the guests?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but I’ll be sure to pass on the suggestion,” she said wryly. “No, but it has to do with the bard’s disappearance. Apparently there’s something in the sewers that might or might not be eating people-

“In the sewers?” Geralt frowned. “Maybe a Zeugl, but they hardly eat people-”

“That’s why I said might  _ not _ ,” Yennefer said. “Whatever it is, people are getting restless, and Queen Katerina is worried they might rebel once they see how much coin was put into Demavend’s marriage while people are going missing. She’s willing to pay you handsomely to get to the bottom of it.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, downing the last of his ale.

“Good,” she said, standing up. “I’ll wait for both of you in the Castle at nine in the morning, sharp. Jaskier, if you don’t keep your cock inside your pants for the duration of this job, I will personally cut it off myself.”

“Why don't you say that to Geralt?” Jaskier said, indignantly. “ _ He _ spends most of his coin in whorehouses. Or didn’t he tell you that bit of information?” 

Yennefer raised an eyebrow and looked at him. Geralt shrugged. 

“Unlike kings, witchers cannot get syphilis,” she said dryly. “Besides, as long as he has bathed and is in possession of his mental faculties, I don’t see why I should care what he does with his money or his prick when I welcome him into my bed. If you thought you could affect- ah,  _ crap _ -” 

The cockroach had just gotten itself out of the window and onto the table, waddling carelessly in front of Yennefer’s eyes. Jaskier and Geralt looked at it just in time to see it combust into flame and curl into a charred lump with a flick of Yennefer’s wrist. 

“Hey!” Jaskier protested. “I needed that!”

“What on  _ earth _ would you need a cockroach for, bard?” Yennefer asked. 

“It was teaching me about  _ destiny _ ,” Jaskier said, and Yennefer’s eyes shifted minutely from confusion to annoyance and back to bafflement. 

“Geralt, I'm sure even in Kaer Morhen they will teach you not to pick up pets you can't hope to take proper care of,” she said. “This one might need to be put down. No sign of intelligent life left. I thought you’d care better for your beasts.”

“I take great offence at that. Roach is very well cared for,” he said, but looked at the charred remains of the cockroach, tuning out Yennefer and Jaskier’s heated bickering for a small moment.  _ Destiny fulfilled _ , he thought.  _ Maybe we really aren’t that different after all _ . 

###    
  
  


Sometimes, and Geralt would rather die before admitting he was at least curious about it, sometimes Jaskier would get in a  _ mood _ . 

It was usually when he had been left on his own for a while, no one around to hear him talk, and he got sort of still - eyes lost in the sky, fingers twisting in themselves, unnaturally quiet; he got lost inside his mind, trapped within something only he could see. Then Geralt would make a noise and the spell would be broken, and he would be back to talking his ear off in no time. 

Sometimes, however, it took him a moment or two to snap back to normal. He’d eye Geralt as if he could not understand a single word he had said, repeat it as if to taste it, and slowly settle into himself as one would put on clothes in the morning. There was no telling which one it would be. It was sort of a quirk of having Jaskier follow him around - he’d take notice of his eating habits, how terribly the bard slept, how fast he could run while being chased off by an enraged spouse, and how often he would space out, caught in his own thoughts. 

“Jaskier,” he called. “Talked to the prince?”

“The prince?” Jaskier asked, uncertain, eyes still stuck on Roach’s flank. His lute was sitting loosely on his crossed legs on a bench by the stable walls - there was hay stuck to his hair, and Geralt didn’t really know why or when or  _ how _ it got stuck there, and thought he didn’t really want to know.

“Yes, Jaskier,” Geralt said dryly. “The one you’re supposed to sing for. Did you talk to him?”

“Did I- Oh!” He said, jumping to his feet as if his soul had just descended upon his body. In a split second, like he didn’t look like a shell of a human being a moment earlier. Geralt realized, uncomfortably, that at the end of the day, even though he knew plenty, he knew nothing of Jaskier at all. “Oh, I did, Geralt, you will not  _ believe  _ this love story-”

“Then why tell me?” He grunted, stepping over to Roach to look through his saddlebags. He’d need to take stock of his herbs and potions - a Zeugl was no joke, and he would need all the help he could get. Blizzard would be good, if he could find enough white myrtle petals. Cat, definitely, and he thankfully still had enough Berbecane to make a bottle or two. Thunderbolt would probably be good also-

“And then,” he realized Jaskier was  _ still _ talking, “He said, my bride had the most beautiful voice I’ve seen, like a siren, and I wrote something to her but she can’t  _ read _ -”

“I thought noble women knew how to read,” he muttered, still fumbling with his bags. 

“Oh my- Were you even  _ listening _ to me, you absolute plaster wall?” Jaskier said, indignantly, hands on his waist like an overworked mother. “Demavend’s bride  _ isn’t _ a noble woman, that’s what has got the court with their breeches in a twist. She used to be a washerwoman; absolute commoner, the most common out of all common women, except she’s truly,  _ truly _ beautiful-  _ Don’t _ give me that look, Geralt, I can appreciate the beauty of a lady  _ without _ any second intentions, thank you very much-”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, doubting. 

“Anyways,” Jaskier continued, “he said, I wrote her this poem but she can’t read yet, so I was wondering if you could maybe turn it into a song. And the poetry is not half bad, I’ll say, but the wedding is in a couple of days, so I said, maybe I can work something- Oh shi-”

“Easy there, Roach,” Geralt said, patting her hind quarters as Jaskier stared at the frankly annoyed horse neighing at him. Baffled, he put one hand on his hip and pointed a finger at the mare. 

“And to think I have smuggled all those sugar cubes for you!”

“You have- What?” Geralt raised an eyebrow, and Jaskier blinked as if only then he realized what he had said. 

“As if you didn’t  _ know _ ,” he rolled his eyes. “Anyhow, that’s all to say I’ll sadly will not be accompanying you to your quest to fight the mighty Zeugl-”

“What a pity,” Geralt said dryly. 

“I will pretend I have not heard that, thank you,” Jaskier said. “But I  _ will _ need to write something about it-”

“I should’ve let Roach kick you,” he grunted to himself as Jasker babbled on. He picked up his mortar, whatever herbs he left, and sat by Roach’s side to begin grinding whatever he could beforehand. 

“You would  _ never _ ,” Jaskier said, sitting back down on his bench. “Besides, what  _ is  _ a Zeugl, exactly?” 

“A pain in the ass,” he said. Jaskier snorted. 

“That much I figured. What else?

“I don’t know,” Geralt shrugged, and sighed. “No one really knows  _ where _ it comes from, just that it’s very fucking ugly.”

“How ugly?” Jaskier said. “Are we talking drowner level? Foglet level? Striga level?” 

“It has a large head, tentacles, several rows of teeth and lives in sewers eating trash,” Geralt said dryly. “And  _ smelling _ like trash. The right thing to do is to go around the sewers every once in a while killing them when they are still small.”

“Monarchs seldom do the right thing, though,” Jaskier noted, crossing his legs. 

“And thus Zeugls grow to the point of invulnerability,” he grunted, pouring the ground berbecane into a small leather pouch. “It looks- like a rotten potato. If a rotten potato had slimy, pinkish skin. It’s really gross.” 

“Have you bested one?” 

“Once,” he shrugged. “In Tretogor. A couple of small ones here and there too, but they’re easy enough when they’re young.” 

“So much  _ potential _ !” Jaskier clapped, startling Roach into a stressed string of snorts. Geralt patted her leg absently. Poor girl didn’t deserve to be scared that much in the span of an hour. “The court will probably be interested in hearing the heroics that went down in the sewers! I’m already thinking of the name. And the theme! A  _ grotesque _ opponent. An underground  _ heist _ -”

“I  _ really  _ should’ve let you kick him for good,” He muttered to Roach who, true to her wits, snorted in agreement. 

###    
  
  


Once upon a time, or so Geralt had been told at a whorehouse, once upon a time, there was a beast trapped in a labyrinth. 

The beast didn’t know if it preceded the labyrinth or if the labyrinth preceded the beast; all it knew was the stone walls and its mission. Every nine years, nine men willingly got lost within the bowels of his abode; those who entered willingly were to be delivered from evil by the beast’s monstrous hands, and the pile of corpses left from this repentance the beast arranged in such a way that it marked the different galleries apart. Death guided the beast until he himself was delivered from evil by the hands of his prophesied killer; his corpse, then, would mark a gallery as his killer would take his place. And so on and so on and so on...

It was not often that Geralt found himself in the sewers. It took a very large and very rich city for a complex system of sewers to become a necessity rather than a luxury - it was only when feces and piss started to stink all the way up to the castle that the monarchs thought some public service was in order. Then commenced the digging, the setting, the carving of stones - some workers were buried where they died, serving as foundations for the heavy stones meant to pave the tunnels. But everytime Geralt found himself in one of those, he couldn’t help but think of the beast - and how every nine years, nine men were sent to be killed. 

It wasn’t a poetic feeling of entrapment. Those damned things were a whole lot like labyrinths on its own, noises echoing throughout the damp stone arches. Vengerberg was a large city; the sewers were filled with all kinds of stuff. It was in situations like this, faced with odors so foul he could practically feel the toxicity burning the little hairs in his nose, that he wondered if a witcher’s sense of smell was such a necessary part of the trade that they had to make it so heightened. 

Still, there was no use complaining now. His Trials were long past; there was no going back to what his body was before all of the chemicals were pumped into his veins. He barely remembered what it looked like before, anyhow. How could someone return to a place they couldn’t even-

He heard it then - the minute shift of a foot, the sound of a rock dropping into the water. 

Geralt pulled his silver sword out, back glued to the wall as he walked silently on the narrow, high pavement siding the constant stream of filth of the sewers. He slid silently, feet barely making a noise, and he heard it - rushed breathing, the sound of dry-swallowing, the shift of a sword in hands. Human, by the smell; deadly afraid, by the stench. He knew they would meet round around the corner, and he got in position, shoulders set, knees bent, and turned-

The tip of his sword nearly pierced the skin of a young woman’s throat. 

“Don’t kill me!” She whispered. “I’m not the Zeugl!” 

“Obviously-  _ What _ ?” Geralt said, pulling his sword away but never letting his guard down. The girl wasn’t older than fifteen, at least - she carried a narrow sword, a needle of a thing, well-balanced and properly made. Her long hair was braided out of her face, and her eyes of clear blue were a stark contrast to the filth coating her armor. He took a step back, considering what he’d found. “How do you know it’s a Zeugl?”

“I know how to read,” She narrowed her eyes. “How do  _ you _ know it’s a Zeugl?”

“I’m a witcher,” he said dryly, and her eyes widened - she took a step back, sword up in defense. 

“I know you,” she said, quietly. “White hair, yellow eyes. You’re  _ him _ -”

“The White Wolf, yes,” Geralt rolled his eyes at Jaskier’s antics. “Don’t go around believing what any random bard sings to you.”

“ _ No _ ,” the girl said, and her eyes were daggers in the dark - she eyed him, head to toe, and whispered, “You’re the Butcher of Blaviken.”

Geralt felt the three words echo around the empty damp sewer tunnels, ricocheting around his head like a spear. It’d been so long, and Jaskier had taken control of his image in such a way, he nearly forgot this was what he was - the butcher, a monster, a  _ beast _ . His immediate reaction was to step back, but he felt the edge of the pavement with the heel of his boot - he eyed her as if she was a nightmare, a demon to torture his soul, the beast in the labyrinth seeking to deliver him from evil-

“I’m-”

“They sent you, didn’t they?” The girl said, raising her sword. “Stregobor. He sent you here to find me and kill me like you did with that girl in Blaviken-”

“No,” Geralt choked, horrified at the implication. He could feel Renfri’s blood on his hands, warm and sticky, clinging to his clothes and swords; the sound of her voice, the calloused weight of her fingers on his thighs. He shook himself out of the memory that threatened to engulf him, gripping his sword tightly with trembling fingers. He’d had too many potions trying to be cautious and forgot about the thrice-damned  _ side effects _ . “ _ No _ .”

The girl eyed him, then, looking for something in his face. Whatever it was, she let down her guard, ever so slightly, and sighed. 

“Did they pay you? How much did they pay you to come after me?” She said. “I can double the value if you let me go. But if you’re here just because you  _ want _ to, I can guarantee you I will  _ not  _ go down without a fight-”

The girl looked like she might argue more, but a sudden burst of sound echoed throughout the galleries - the clanking of several sets of armor running down the sewers. Geralt counted their footsteps; there were eight pairs, or so it seemed.

“They are after me,” she whispered as they passed. Nine men in the sewers looking for a beast. “I have to-”

“ _ Why _ would they be after you?” Geralt asked. “Why would  _ I  _ be after you?”

“My cousin went missing,” she mumbled, sword still up. “Stregobor said I was the one. That I was  _ evil _ because- Because I was born under an eclipse.”

_ Oh _ , Geralt thought, and the words were heavy on his chest, numbing his knees. He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, Renfri’s brooch digging into the calloused skin of his palms; the world was spinning around his head, Cat and Thunderbolt together giving him the worst vertigo, floor swaying under his feet. Born under the black sun, sword up, eyes wild. Maybe she did kill her cousin. Maybe  _ she  _ was the monster he had been hired to kill and didn’t even know.

He cursed himself for losing control like this. It was as if Renfri was back here - taunting him, riling him up to make a choice he didn’t want to make.  _ Then I am the monster they say I am _ , he had said, and it was true because he was, and he didn’t know if the monster preceded the witcher or the witcher needed the monster to walk its Path. 

“I did not kill Renfri under Stregobor’s commands,” He said, turning his sword around and showing her the hilt; the brooch was welded to the silver, the other half welded to the steel. It glimmered under whatever little light there was. “She asked me to choose, and I said I would not. Then destiny made a choice for me. One I-” He paused, taking a deep breath. “One I regret. Deeply.” 

The girl’s fingers traced the outline of the precious stones on the gold. Her eyes were stormy where she was eerily quiet, and she ever so slowly let down her guard. 

“I thought Witchers couldn’t feel human emotion,” She said, quietly. He felt like laughing.

“I thought women born under the black sun were the doom of the world,” he replied, and she smiled sadly. 

“I just need to prove to them that they are wrong,” She said, quietly. “That I didn’t- I’d never kill Lilian. I tried telling the guard it was a  _ zeugl _ , but they wouldn’t- If I bring her out, if I can find her. Then they will leave me alone.”

“They will not,” he said. His tongue licked the back of his teeth clean from the blood that had seeped out of his gums. It tasted like iron and defeat, of battles people of his kind could never win. “Once a monster, no one will think you anything different.”

She paused, lower lip trembling, and drew in a shuddering breath. 

“I’ll go with you,” she said, finally. 

“Absolutely not,” Geralt said as a reflex - she frowned, crossing her arms. 

“Well, I want to see you try and  _ stop _ me,” she said, and sighed. “Look, if I- If I don’t find my cousin, I’m dead. If I leave the sewers, I’m  _ dead _ . If I stay here, I’m obviously dead. You’re my only way out, Geralt of Rivia. So if I’ve got no choice, neither will you.”

Geralt said nothing for a couple of heartbeats - the two of them engaged in a staring match for their lives. But the girl was unrelenting, and Geralt groaned in defeat. 

“Well, it’s your funeral,” he said dryly. “Might I have the name of the body I’ll have to bury?”

“It’s Ariadna,” she said, and her smile in the dark reminded him of that story he heard once upon a time in a brothel - and, most of all, that there were nine men in the sewers, waiting to be delivered from evil. 

###    
  


Ariadna had a sword that must’ve cost at least a hundred gold, albeit deceivingly simple; Geralt wasn’t fooled, however. He could tell from balance and weight that it was  _ good quality _ \- a very good sword for someone who was still vacillant on her arm movements. Her footwork was perfect, however. When they got closer to the Zeugl, its spawn began to appear in the sewers, climbing up their legs like an overactive brain grasping at them with slimy talons, and while evading them had been easy enough for her, managing her strength did not come naturally. 

“If you’re going to stay down here,” Geralt said dryly, pulling his sword free of a Zeugl tadpole and wincing at the loud, wet  _ squelch _ it let out as it fell back into the sewers. “You might as well act like you’re in a  _ real _ battle, and not in a practice ring.”

“Well, I apologize for not having perfect Witcher skills,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I practice with my cousin. It’s in my best interest not to hurt him.”

“Then he’s a terrible sparring mate,” Geralt grunted. “Is he made of glass?”

“No, he’s-” Ariadna paused, biting her lower lip. “Well. Important. To my uncle.”

“Why do you even care about your uncle? Where’s your dad to stand up for you?”

“In Lyria,” she said dryly. “For killing my mother. I live with my aunt.”

Jaskier used to say, often enough, that Geralt didn’t have a single artistic bone in his body; but in moments like this, Geralt thought gingerly, he begged to differ. He was such a master of the art of shoving his foot in his mouth, he could bet brothel workers would feel jealous of his flexibility if they knew. But it made no sense - her armor was well made, her sword beautifully worked, her footwork too perfect. As they continued on deeper into the sewers, the smell became unbearable, and bits and pieces of people started to resurface. A half-eaten arm. A toe carried by ants. If Ariadna was bothered by the gory scenes, she didn’t seem like it. 

“I am sorry,” he said. 

“What difference does it make?” She said dryly. “She’s dead, I’m not, my father married again, and I’m left here to rot in Aedirn. The  _ one _ time I thought I could find happiness-”

Geralt paused, then. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the perfect posture; it was oddly familiar, like a tune he remembered hearing once in the past but never again. 

“What do you mean by that?”

Ariadna sighed, slowing her step and pinching the bridge of her nose. Geralt halted his step, ears careful for those damned tadpoles crawling after them. 

“I- Look,” she cleared her throat. “My cousin was supposed to marry this man. Knight. Very important guy from Rivia, you might know him-”

“I am most certain I do not,” he said dryly. 

“Well, Rivia isn’t that big of a place,” she said. “And he’s- he’s special.”

“You fell in love with him,” Geralt raised an eyebrow, and even under the near absence of light, he could see Ariadna’s cheeks blushing furiously. She was a young girl, and he was starkly reminded of this fact by seeing her shuffle on her feet, not a shadow of the confident girl who had been following him for the better part of the hour. 

“It’s not like I can control those things!” She said, defensively, voice raising an octave. “We love each other! And that’s a-”

“Absolute stupidity,” Geralt finished for her. “Ariadna, I’m sorry, but you look very fucking rich. There’s no place for love in situations like this.” 

“Only a place for misery, but I am  _ tired of _ it!” She shrieked, stomping the worn-out stone with her foot. A teenager, yes. But one that did not deserve to carry the burden she did. “I am  _ tired _ !  _ He  _ was the one who called off the wedding with Lilian and proposed to  _ me _ , I did nothing of the sort! Why do people assume  _ I  _ was the one who bewitched him to make the choice? Am I that  _ unlovable _ that people won’t believe someone could truly-” 

She covered her mouth with the back of her wrist, trying to control her breathing. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Geralt shuffled on his feet, unsure of what to say as she calmed herself down. 

“I lost my temper. I apologize,” She said, clearing her throat. “That’s why- I  _ wasn’t _ born under an eclipse. But I cannot  _ stand _ my oaf of an uncle, so he called those mages to say they had missed a Black Sun girl. They came right away; my aunt sided with me until my cousin Lilian went missing-”

“And now they think you have killed her to get away with your Knight,” Geralt said, and she nodded, eyes filled to the brim with tears. 

“But I  _ didn’t _ ,” she pleaded. “I said, my love, you  _ have  _ to give up. I said this was  _ insane _ , that my uncle would have my head, but he wouldn’t hear of it. And I- I am tired. I am tired of giving up my happiness and my safety so other people can be happy and safe. And if I don’t look out for me, then no one will. My mother is gone. My father doesn’t care. I have no one left. But I want to be worthy of  _ having _ someone.”

They were silent, then - staring at each other as the sewer water ran fast in the opposite direction they were going. Geralt thought about what he could say, but came out empty handed. Jaskier was good at those things. Yennefer could handle it-

Before he could put his foot in his mouth once more, there was a loud slurping sound as another tadpole got off of the water and tried to grasp Ariadna’s leg - she twirled out if its grip, but hit the sword with nearly not enough strength to cut, merely pushing the creature away. It shrieked in anger and lunged for another attack; Geralt stepped ahead and plunged his silver sword right through its midsection, until it reached the other end and fully impaled the creature on the blade. He lifted his sword with the tadpole still attached to it and raised an eyebrow. 

“Like you  _ mean _ it, Ariadna,” he said. 

“Gross,” she answered, but turned her back and kept walking. 

###    
  


“Geralt, I’m not saying we’re lost,” Ariadna said, “But this is the third time we see this poor sod’s head in this gallery, and we seem to be getting no closer to the Zeugl. Apparently.” 

“Hmm,” he grunted, cleaning his sword off of tadpole Zeugl guts and grime on his armor pants and eyeing the head staring at him emptily. It still had a bit of flesh attached, but it was crawling over with maggots and ants - disgusting and macabre. It took him a lot to feel unnerved, but as he watched Ariadna kick the head with the tip of her foot and spread maggots all over the floor, he felt something cold trail down his spine. “What are you doing?” 

“Speeding up decomposition,” she said dryly. “This way the maggots can get to the other side.”

“Ariadna, that’s  _ fucked up _ ,” Geralt protested.

“It’s not,” she shrugged, then paused, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not bothered by it either.”

“But I’m a Witcher,” he said. “You’re a fourteen year old-”

“Fifteen,” she corrected. “Have you seen a battlefield in summer, Geralt?”

“Not if I can avoid it,” he answered dryly. 

“I have,” she said, absently. “It was my father’s idea of a fun time. He’d take me to the battlefields in the summer and tell me in excruciating detail how each bloating corpse probably had died. Some were still alive; my father would finish them off himself right in front of me. This here? It’s nothing.”

Geralt said nothing, pulling her away from the rotting head to any other gallery that did not have stray body parts. 

“No comment on my father’s child-raising techniques?” Ariadna pressed on. “Stregobor said that my nonchalant attitude about it is another sign of the fucking Black Sun-”

“Stregobor knows shit all,” Geralt grunted, “And I’m a fucking  _ witcher _ . I think I know a thing or two about bad parents.”

“Point taken,” Ariadna said, placing her hands on her waist. “We’re still lost. And we don’t necessarily know if it  _ is _ a Zeugl after all. I didn’t think they’d eat people-”

“They don’t,” Geralt said. “But if the people are  _ already dead _ when the Zeugl gets to them, I don’t think it’ll discriminate between flesh and trash.”

“Flesh and trash! Hah!” Ariadna said. “Well, that poses another problem. Why are there corpses in the sewers in the first place? Who is throwing them here?” 

“That sounds like a King problem,” he answered dryly. Ariadna looked at him oddly for a couple of heartbeats, and he took notice of her hair - golden under all the grime; her blue eyes, the high arch of her cheekbones-

“Have you heard,” she said, distantly, “The tale of the monster in the labyrinth?” 

“I have.”

“There’s a beast in a labyrinth,” she said, turning to the walls, her fingers tracing the rough outline of the stones. “Every nine years, nine men will enter its lair to be delivered from evil. Until one day, when the beast himself will be cleansed by its prophesied killer. That murder is a liberation. But the beast can’t win. If it loses, it’ll die. If it wins, it’ll keep living in filth. Winning has rendered them the villain. Have you thought about that?”

“I have not,” he said, dryly. “And I don’t see how that helps.”

“Just thinking out loud,” she shrugged, and looked up - there was a large hole near the arched ceiling, seemingly of a stone that wasn’t placed well enough and fell down. “Because the killer in the prophecies found himself a way, didn’t he? Turn around.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“Turn around,” she repeated, and he did, begrudgingly, listening to her pulling pieces of her armor away. 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” he asked. 

“I have an idea,” she said, voice muffled under her clothes. He grunted, waiting for her to be done with whatever it was. “Okay, you can look.”

He did - she held her wool undershirt to him and he took it, confused. It was woven with silk and gold; the cloth alone could probably pay two grown, sturdy horses. She took the tip of her sword and made a cut on a thread - the whole thing began to unravel, falling apart in his hands. 

“Ah, shit, this is so uncomfortable,” she said, shifting in place to settle her armor on her bare skin. Geralt knew the feeling intimately - the bite of the metal on flesh, the incessant grinding of the leather, rubbing the skin raw. Ariadna tied the tip of the thread on her sword, placed it squarely on her back, and began climbing the holes on the gallery walls until she found the large hole near the ceiling. 

“The fuck are you on to?” Geralt said, finally, looking at the girl perched up near the ceiling like a damned owl. 

“You take the shirt to mark the way,” she said. “I’ll hold the end up here so the tadpoles won’t get to me easily. When you find the Zeugl you come back and pick me up.” 

“I could just leave you behind,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. 

“And I’ll just follow you. Just fucking  _ go _ already!” 

There was something to be said, Geralt thought as he stomped away from the girl bossing him around, about the women he ran into, or at least the women he humored. Maybe it was something about the water in Vengerberg that made women be so stubborn and headstrong - or maybe the women who were brave enough to approach him were also brave enough to boss him around. Whatever it was, and he’d never admit it out loud, Ariadna had a  _ point _ . As he unraveled the wool shirt to mark his way back, he pondered on her questions.  _ Why _ were there so many corpses in the sewers?  _ Who _ was killing that many people? How come this had gone unnoticed for so long? 

He could hear Vesemir chastising him for getting involved with politics. But it was difficult not to care when there were  _ so many _ people - torsos, legs, pieces of limbs, stray hairs. It was a battlefield underground, right under the King’s nose. As he walked through the galleries, he decided following the carnage was probably the best idea, even as the smell of waste and decomposition made his stomach churn; but he could hear it then, the gurgle of the beast’s teeth chomping down on trash, slurping sewer water-

He took a left at a gallery, finding himself in a different section, larger both in width and height. Where the previous galleries were narrow hallways, this was an open hall, with a high ceiling curving around an impossibly dirty skylight that allowed just a small amount of sunlight to illuminate the room. If he focused, there was a latch on the skylight, and a bit of rope tied up to it - this was where people tasked with maintenance would come down, he figured, and the  _ one _ entrance that would’ve saved him a hell of a lot of time if he’d known about it. All the walls were made of heavy stone, except the one in the back, made of a tightly-woven iron grid to filter the solid waste and allow water to pass through. He supposed that wall led to the river, but had no time to think about it. 

Because attached to the grate wall, eating a whole human body, as tall as the arches supporting the weight of the gallery, was one slimy-looking Zeugl. 

“Damn, you ugly,” he said. The damned thing, thankfully, couldn’t hear a thing, but even if he wanted to, it was too big to fight off on his own.

He needed Ariadna. 

“Well  _ fuck _ ,” he cursed; he tied whatever was left of the wool shirt to a stray piece of rock, and turned on his heel to go back and get the girl. 

###    
  
  


“Oh  _ shit _ ,” Ariadna said, “That’s  _ very _ fucking ugly.” 

“And very fucking dangerous,” Geralt replied. Finding their way back was easy enough - the hard part was going to be killing it without dying first. He reached into his bag and took a potion, pulling off the cap with his teeth and downing it all in a single gulp. It burned his throat as it went down, but he could feel it; the world slowed, and he pulled his silver sword out of its sheath slowly. “You’ll stay here-”

“Not happening,” Ariadna said, pulling her sword free also. 

“Ariadna-”

“Geralt, I don’t think you believed me, but I have  _ nothing _ to lose,” she said, determined. Her eyes were as blue as the sky, and as hard as a weathered warrior’s. “If I die here, it’s better than dying because I’ve been branded something I’m not. This is  _ my  _ choice.” 

He said nothing, eyeing her. Perfect footwork. Hands lax on her sword. He tightened her hands around the hilt of her sword, and stared her straight in the eyes. 

“That is not a Zeugl,” he said. “That is your father. That is your uncle. That is Stregobor. That is everyone who has ever hurt you in your life. I’m going to go first, but it has tentacles hidden beneath the water. You focus on them and I’ll distract the head. When you strike down,  _ mean _ it.”

She took a deep breath. 

And nodded. 

###    
  


“Geralt! On your right!”

The Zeugl had five tentacles that he could count - there was only one left, but the head was being specially stubborn. Geralt spun on his heels, swinging his sword clean across the remaining tentacle and slicing it right in the middle. The beast shrieked in pain, trying to bite at them; Ariadna still couldn’t strike for shit, but she was helpful in deflecting the blows in his direction so he could finish the job. They worked well together. If they survived, he’d be sure to tell her so. 

The Zeugl was in bad shape. Geralt had hacked half of its jaw off - but it still powered through, whatever purple sludge that ran through its veins pouring down the sewers and smelling putrid. He couldn’t pay attention to it, however - they were so close, so-

It took less than a second - he pulled another vial of potion to finally end the creature for good, when it finally,  _ finally _ seemed to notice Ariadna was the weaker of the two, and it went for her faster than he could reach her; Geralt roared in warning, and she deflected the first bite, twisting on her back away from the Zeugl; her foot caught on a stray rock, and she plummeted to the ground, rolling on her back-

And plunged her sword right on the Zeugl’s palate, burying it deeply into its head. 

It screeched loudly, trembling; Ariadna pulled her sword free and hacked at it once more, cutting off the other half of its jaw, and again, and again, and  _ again _ -

“Ariadna,” Geralt called. The girl didn’t stop, even as the Zeugl fell on its side with a loud noise, rippling the water to high waves of trash and waste; she still went at it, sword finding the skin and cutting deeply again and again and again- “Ariadna, stop. It’s dead.”

She raised her head - there were twin tracks of tears cleaning her face of the grime accumulated on her cheeks. The entirety of her armor was covered in Zeugl guts; the monster itself lay in pieces in the sewer, tinging the water purple with its blood. She twisted her sword in her hand, feeling its weight, and swallowed. 

“I  _ killed  _ it,” she said. “I fucking-.”

Geralt let himself lean against a wall, taking in a deep breath. The Zeugl’s flesh sizzled where his silver sword had touched it - Ariadna heaved, and finally, after an entire day in the sewers, vomited the content of her stomach into the water. 

“Fuck,” she cursed, wiping her mouth on the back of her wrist. “Fuck.  _ Shit _ . Goddamn it. Demavend won’t fucking  _ believe _ me-”

“Who?” Geralt called. 

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, standing up straight. “I need to find my cousin. You think she could’ve been eaten already?”

“Probably,” Geralt said. “I’m sorry.” 

“I need to find at least- wait,” Ariadna said, narrowing her eyes - she crossed the room, struggling against the sewer water thickened with Zeugl blood, looking through the iron grate by the end of the room. “I think I see- Do you think you can pull that free?”

Geralt nodded, walking to her side. The grid itself was sturdy, but it had gone for far too long without being replaced - he gave it a tentative pull. 

“Step back,” he grunted, and waited until she was distant enough - he cracked his neck, and pulled- 

The grate popped off with a loud crack-

“Oh  _ thank fucking Melitele-” _ Ariadna said.

Behind the grate , passed out and tied to the ceiling, was Princess Lilian of Aedirn, sister to the Crown Prince Demavend and daughter of King Virfuril of Aedirn. 

“You’re not called Ariadna,” Geralt said, and she smiled at him - the blonde hair. The blue eyes. The high cheekbones-

“And you’re not from Rivia either,” Princess Meve of Lyria answered, and fucking  _ winked _ . 

###    
  


As soon as they were out of the sewers, they were stopped by an entire squadron of the royal guard. 

“For  _ fuck’s  _ sake,” Geralt said. 

“Princess Meve,” Their leader said, pointing his sword at Meve’s neck, “For the murder of your cousin Princess Lilian-”

“She’s not dead, she’s alive,” Meve said, rolling her eyes and pointing at Geralt holding Lilian’s unconscious body. Whatever they used to knock her out was highly effective - she had probably been asleep since she was taken. By  _ whom _ was the big question, but it was definitely one he wanted no part in answering. The sun was nearly setting, and he just wanted a bath. Or two. 

Meve dragged the piece of the Zeugl she had carried out of the sewers to the Lead Guard’s feet - one soldier actually heaved. “There was a Zeugl in the sewers. Someone took her and if Geralt hadn’t helped me, she’d be Zeugl food by now. Thanks for nothing, I guess.”

“I’ll still take you!” He said, indignantly. “You haven’t proved you had nothing to do with-”

“She has done enough,” said a woman behind them - the guards stepped away to reveal Queen Katerina and Prince Demavend themselves. 

Queen Katerina of Aedirn was renowned for her beauty. And yet it was one thing to hear of it, and another to see her in full glory in front of them - the elongated neck, mahogany hair elegantly pinned up in a twist, just the beginnings of silver showing through and denoting she was no older than forty. But the most striking of her features were her piercing blue eyes; cunning and sharp, worthy of the mind behind all of King Virfuril’s achievements, and oh so similar to her niece’s. Katerina stepped in front of them and marched straight in Geralt’s direction, anxious hands finding her sleeping daughter’s face. “Oh, thank  _ Melitele _ -”

“Your Majesty, we’re acting on  _ direct  _ orders-”

“Which order could be more direct than  _ mine,  _ Lieutenant?” She asked, turning around. Behind her, her personal guard marched through the corridor of guards with a stretcher - Geralt made quick work of placing the princess on it. “My daughter is safe, and so is my niece. You could make yourself more _ useful _ right now by not trying to arrest my family, so I’d suggest leaving her alone.

“B-But Your Majesty!” Lieutenant Killigan said, “Captain Rosso was clear! Your Majesty the King has ordered-”

“I’ll deal with my husband as I see fit, Lieutenant,” The Queen said dryly. “ _ Leave _ . And take whatever spoil Meve brought to the King, please.”

“Mother, it’ll stink up the entire castle,” Demavend said. He had brown hair, and boyish brown eyes - even though he had a severe expression on his face for someone so young, the way he spoke spelled mischief, eyes glinting in amusement. Katerina waved a hand. 

“That’s his problem,” she said. “Off you go, all of you, now.” 

If the Lieutenant didn’t like it, he said nothing else - frowning, he picked up whatever piece of the Zeugl’s jaw Meve had brought and began to carry it towards the castle. Geralt turned around; the skylight had let them out on castle grounds, albeit a mile or two away from the actual castle, but right where clueless cows ate away happily at the idyllic green pastures. 

“Don’t think you won’t hear of this later,” Katerina said, finding Lilian’s hand and squeezing it tightly. “I specifically told you to  _ stay in the castle _ -”

“And wait for Virfuril to off me myself? No fucking  _ way _ ,” Meve said, and drew in a sharp breath. 

“Watch your  _ profanity _ ,” Katerina narrowed her eyes, but sighed in defeat. “Thank you, Meve. For saving Lilian. And you, witcher,” she said, turning on his direction. “Madam Yennefer spoke highly of you. I see she was correct.” 

“Your Majesty, I appreciate it,” he said, dryly. “But if it wasn’t for your niece, I’d still be lost in the sewers.”

“Is it so?” She said, and smiled. “Goddamn it, Mevie. I thought I’d- The  _ two _ of you in the same day-”

“I’m sorry, auntie,” Meve said, sheepishly. 

“We’ll talk of this later,” she said. “I’ll send someone with water to hose you two down. You  _ reek _ .”

“I’m aware,” Geralt said. 

“Demavend, will you-”

“Sure, Mother,” the prince nodded. “Lilian needs immediate attention. You can go.”

Queen Katarina nodded, placing a kiss on her son’s cheek, and waved to her guards to take the stretcher away, following behind them in a hurry. They watched her place the stretcher in a carriage by the dirt road leading to the pastures and rush towards the castle, and Demavend sighed. Geralt began prying himself away from his armor, fingers digging the clasps and buckles from within the layers of waste and Zeugl guts. 

“Thank the fucking  _ gods _ you’re alive,” he said, eyeing Geralt wiping purple goo away from his chestplate only to find more hidden underneath, soaking his undershirt. “I didn’t think you’d live to see tomorrow. Thank  _ Melitele _ you’ve beaten today.”

“Emphasis on  _ today _ , Dem,” Meve said, throwing her sword on the floor and following Geralt’s lead, taking off whatever piece of armor she could without getting nude out in the open. “There’s still a fuckton of unanswered questions. Like who took Lilian. And how the fuck am I supposed to survive your wedding without your father and Stregobor fucking murdering me before you say I do.”

“You need a bodyguard,” Demavend said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Melitele’s tits, you smell like you were rolling down the sewers-”

“Guess what the  _ fuck  _ I was doing, Dem?” Meve hissed, undoing her braid and pulling bits of trash out of the strands. “How the fuck am I supposed to find a bodyguard and still be inconspicuous? Are you even taking this plan seriously?” 

“Of fucking course I am, Mevie!” Demavend threw his hands up in the air. “We just need to find someone who was already supposed to  _ be _ there to look after you.”

“One of your Army friends, maybe?” Meve asked, squeezing Zeugl goo out of her hair. “Oh this is  _ nasty _ -”

“Maybe,” Demavend said. “Or maybe-”

He gave Geralt a pointed look - Meve, suddenly aware of the silence, looked in his direction, and gave a wide smile. 

“Oh  _ yes _ ,” she said - Geralt, finally realizing what they meant, froze in place trying to wipe his swords on his underpants, and found himself yet again the only word that could sum up the horrifying  _ mess _ he’d just found himself in. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "lazy so what you’re saying is that when geralt meets Meve’s son in Blood and Wine she knows why Geralt deserted” yes
> 
> “And she let him make a fool of himself?”
> 
> yes
> 
> to be updated as my beta looks over my mistakes. this brazilian right here only has 1 (one) remaining brain cell after carnival, please be kind. lmao


	4. THE RIGHT TO SCREAM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might survive this global pandemic, but boi i cannot guarantee my liver will 
> 
> *sips wine*

_But don’t bother mourning for the dead: they know what they are doing._

  
  


_I bring stitched on my chest_ _  
_ _Beads made of fresh memories_ _  
_ _Warm bread on the table_ _  
_ _The smell goes up the stairs_ _  
_ _I wake up and see nothing_ _  
_ _Time is where you made your home_

###  _Ard Skellig, 1270_

“Smooth seas this evening,” Ciri said, eyeing the waves crashing on the shore under the watchful gaze of the setting sun. She didn’t need to see who was creeping behind her to know - she had years of practice.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Geralt said, walking up to her. Eist’s old room in Kaer Trolde led up to a balcony overlooking the seas of Ard Skellig. He wondered what must’ve been like, living here - waking up to the outline of the Skellige islands, the smell of salt and the sight of the stormy seas of the Islands. Eist was a good man, he knew. And he’d like to think that wherever Eist was, he was happy as he had lived - even if it was just for his peace of mind. 

“I’m just predictable like that, I think”, she said, elbows leaning heavily on the wooden parapet of the balcony. Geralt mimicked her - from there, they could see the funeral boats being prepared by the harbor. “It’s been years since I last came here, in this room. It feels like another life.”

“Hmm,” He said, absently. “Yennefer sent me to find you. She was worried.”

“Wonder why,” Ciri answered wryly. “I’m not- sad. Or anxious. Or even- I’m just nostalgic, I think. Did you know Hjalmar and I decided to get wedded last time I was here?” 

“You and Hjalmar?” Geralt scoffed. “Really?”

“I was a child, Geralt,” she rolled her eyes, but smiled fondly, pointing at a pond near the gates of the castle. “I challenged him to ice-skate faster than me, which of course he lost- hey!” She slapped him lightly on the arm as he snorted. “It’s pure physics! Have you seen the size of the man?” 

“He’s a rather large buffalo,” Geralt offered, and Ciri snickered. 

“He’s as big as two Roaches,” she said, winking - it was on. 

“He’s as tall as Jaskier’s hats,” he answered, and she laughed.

“He’s as large as three Vesemirs and an Eskel.”

“He’s as massive as Lambert’s will to be an asshole.”

“He’s as- fuck, Geralt!” She cackled - head thrown back, gray hair slipping free of the careful twist Yennefer had pinned it up into. “As massive as Lambert’s- fucking-”

“You yield, then?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, and she burst into a renewed fit of laughter.

“You’re impossible,” She said, wiping her eyes. “I was half his size and double his speed, this is what I meant, and I made him eat my dust, and then he fell trying to catch up with me and broke his arm and nose. We decided that this was a sign we were meant to be and would get married immediately. We told everyone in the keep.”

“Calanthe was pleased, I imagine,” he said. 

“Pleased? She was livid!” Ciri laughed. “As soon as we told her she arranged the ships to take me back to Cintra. She was so angry, saying I couldn’t marry whoever I wanted, that I had nothing between my ears… Eist thought it was hilarious. He couldn’t stop laughing at me! He’d see me in the morning and just laugh himself to tears over his oatmeal.”

“Sounds like Eist,” Geralt said. The setting sun painted the sky purple, pink and red, trailing golden clouds up in the sky. As soon as the last inch of the sun hid behind the mountains of Skellige, the belated funeral of King Eist and Queen Calanthe would begin by the first sound of the drums. Behind them, on the bedside table, was a golden box keeping whatever was left of Queen Calanthe’s body to be buried right where her heart belonged, by Eist’s side. “We still worry, you know. About you.”

“I know,” she said, reaching for his hand - he squeezed it tightly. He wished he could take away all of her pain - all that happened when he wasn’t there to protect her like he promised he would. The scar on her face was a clear indication of his failure, of how she had been through things no child or woman should have to face, and how he wished there was a way to switch places; he was built to endure. It pained him so, to know that she too held sorrow in her heart as he did; that he wasn’t able to save her from the cruel reality of the world.

He squeezed her hand tighter. He wasn’t good with words, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to give a rousing speech like Jaskier, or be needle-sharp like Yennefer, but this he could do - stay. He hoped his love bled through his actions. He hoped Cirilla knew how desperately she was loved, how wholeheartedly, even if he couldn’t articulate it properly. 

“I just keep wondering,” she said, quietly. “If they would be proud. If they would- If I would've made them feel like it was worth it.”

“I think they would,” Geralt said, rubbing his thumb on her knuckles, “And I think they already did.” 

“How can you be so certain?” She asked, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears - he sighed, placing a kiss on top of her head. Ciri was tall alright. But it was a small comfort to know she could still fit within his arms, that he could still be her safe harbor. 

“Because I am,” he said, simply. “And because I do.”

She hummed, absently, and leaned her head on his shoulder - they stood like this, silent, watching the slow descent of the sun into the horizon, and it was about to all but disappear when there was a soft knock on the doors. 

“Ciri, my love,” Cerys called from the doorway, auburn hair falling around her shoulders in a series of complicated knots and braids, “Yennefer is calling. It is time.”

“So it goes,” Ciri said - Geralt placed a desperate kiss to her forehead, in a last attempt to take off a bit of the weight on her shoulders. It was futile. But such was his fate - he would never stop trying.

“Go on,” he said. “If you miss Jaskier’s performance, he’ll never forgive you.”

“That he won’t,” she said and took a deep breath before turning on her heels and picking up the golden box from the bedside table, carefully, as if it was the most precious treasure in all of the worlds she had ever been to. “It is time.”

  
  


###  _Ellander, 1266_

“Geralt!”

Ciri hopped on Geralt’s arms like she hadn’t grown a whole foot since he last saw her. In his defense, Geralt held her as if she weighed nothing, arms looped tightly around her waist as the girl held on to his neck to dear life. The momentum made them spin in place, Ciri’s feet waving up and down excitedly, and he hid the faintest of outlines of a smile on the girl’s gray hair, falling loose from the braid it was twisted into. 

Yennefer wanted to hate the scene. She wanted to scoff at their embrace, to see the Witcher and his Child of Surprise and think of them as a problem she couldn’t wait to get rid of. But it was so difficult, especially when the sight of Geralt and Ciri holding each other as a lifeline felt right at home within her heart - and it hurt her so. It hurt to the point of asphyxiation, as if her chest was caving back into itself as it once was; skin tearing itself apart, stomach eaten away by acid- 

There was little that she had endured that could compare to the heartbreak of loving someone so fiercely, but knowing it all a lie. 

She bit her tongue, of course. The reason why she had called Geralt over was that she had promised to take care of Ciri to the best of her abilities - and even the best of her abilities, as of then, wouldn’t be enough to do what she had to. 

She just hoped Geralt would agree to it. 

“I pray for the columns of this temple with Geralt of Rivia and the Lion Cub of Cintra together under this roof,” Nenneke said, stepping by her side. The woman was a whole head shorter than even Ciri, tall giraffe as the girl had become, white hair a stark contrast to the deep tan skin. What she lacked in height, however, she had in bosom - full breasts nearly spilling off the strained buttons of her gown. The deep wrinkles of her face reminded her, foolishly, of the path water would carve on stones, after years and years of slow, easy digging; the scent of lavender and patchouli of her clothes lulled her into a sense of safety and security she could not afford to believe in, even for a split second. 

Foolish as she was, she did. 

“Might need to call for some sorely-needed renovation,” she clicked her tongue, watching Ciri tell Geralt, in a rapid-fire stream of words, of all the things she had learned since they last saw each other. Geralt, despite the stony exterior, tucked the stray hairs escaping her braid behind her ears, listening to her attentively. He hummed and grunted when appropriate - Ciri was savvy enough to understand it as good enough answers to the conversation. It was endearing. It made her sick to her stomach.

“Not all of us live in luxury, Yennefer,” Nenneke said. “And not all of us want to. Have you considered that?”

“Of course not.,” she scoffed, waving a hand. “I am civilized; it’s the least I owe my education. Can you imagine if Aretuza learns I’m taking cold baths because it might build character?” 

“Perish the thought. The brotherhood would kick you out of the council if they knew you had somehow developed any character at all,” Nenneke teased, and Yennefer barked out a laugh - there were little to none people left in this world that would talk to her like that. The feeling was good. “You don’t have to look like an abandoned puppy each time Geralt comes around, you know.”

“I don’t,” Yennefer said dryly. 

“Right,” Nenneke shook her head. “Have you thought that, perhaps, if the two of you actually talked about it, you might reach an understanding about-” 

“There’s no understanding to be reached,” Yennefer hissed. “Besides, whatever love he sought from me, I bet Jaskier is already giving him double. I don’t need it and neither does he. And I have every right to be angry, Nenneke. You, better than anyone else, know that.” 

Nenneke hummed, hands clasped behind her back. Ciri was dragging Geralt towards the herbs in the castle gardens, pointing excitedly to a lavender bush she had been taking care of. Doing a great job at it too - Nenneke only had to revive it once in the past month, which was a whole lot better than when Ciri had arrived at the temple. Fall was nearing its end and winter would be upon them soon. But it was always spring in the gardens of the Temple, mild weather almost allowing her to forget the cold creeping closer outside the garden gates. 

“I know,” Nenneke said, finally. “But I also know I know very little. And that no two situations are the same. And that we must allow ourselves to heal.”

“I have healed,” Yennefer said and knew Nenneke didn’t believe a word of it when she raised one white-colored eyebrow, leaf-green eyes gleaming in amusement. “Nenneke.”

“Yennefer,” she answered. “How long have you been living with us here in the Temple?” 

“Short of two years,” Yennefer answered. 

“That’s more than enough time for a healer to notice things,” Nenneke said. “I’m not pressing on the matter. Just giving you some food for thought- Cirilla! You’re stepping right on my Berbecane!” 

“I’m sorry, Nenneke!” Ciri yelled from across the garden, sounding not sorry at all, and Nenneke sighed. 

“Honestly, how have I survived all of you, really. I must be blessed by the Goddess-”

“Or we’re just great guests,” Yennefer answered; Nenneke pursed her lips. 

“Don’t lie within the temple walls, Yennefer, it’s bad luck,” she said dryly, and Yennefer smiled; if at Nenneke’s teasing or the sight of Geralt throwing Ciri over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes, she would never tell.

  
  
  
  


Ciri was a very intelligent girl. It was both a blessing and a curse, Yennefer had figured it early on - a blessing because Yennefer wasn’t a very patient teacher, and she figured she wouldn’t have been able to teach anything if the girl wasn’t as sharp as she was. A curse, on the other hand, because Ciri was way too smart for her own good. She would’ve made a fine queen if the circumstances were different. As it was, she was a sixteen-year-old who was just too perceptive, but lacked the emotional maturity to learn when to keep to herself when needed. 

“Lady Yennefer?” She called, “Why are you angry with Geralt?”

Case in point. 

“I don’t see why this is any of your concern,” she answered, sectioning Ciri’s damp hair with a tad more strength than necessary to pry it out of the knots it found itself into. How the girl managed to get her hair into such a nest was beyond her. It became her nightly ritual - she’d retire to her quarters, and Ciri would find her after bathing, comb in hand, and ask her to salvage her pale-blonde tresses from the utter disaster it had found itself into. She was probably capable enough to do it herself, but Yennefer didn’t find it in her to deny her request. 

Ciri began sleeping in her bed regardless, lest she frightened all of the girls in the dorms with her nightmares. It became part of her nighttime routine - cleanse her face, apply her creams, rub oil on her cuticles, comb Ciri’s hair, argue with Ciri because she clearly did not brush her teeth properly, and read something while waiting for Ciri to fall asleep. Then, and only then, she’d let herself pull the girl close, cradling her against her chest; whispering incantations that were nothing but wishful thinking into her hair. 

If Ciri knew of it, she said nothing. 

“But you promised me, Lady Yennefer,” Ciri insisted, picking absently at the frayed hem of her dress while sitting cross-legged on the floor - Yennefer bumped her on the head with the back of the comb. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Stop picking at your dress,” Yennefer said, sternly. “If it falls apart before I can procure you another, you’ll have to go around the temple only in your breeches.” 

“I don’t mind,” Ciri said, petulantly, and Yennefer raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s cold, Cirilla.”

Ciri didn’t answer, but muttered something to herself that if she heard, Yennefer was certain, would make her profoundly angry. But she let it slide because Ciri was right - she had promised full honesty. She just wasn’t sure she could deliver it. So she remained silent; sectioned the long hair, and began the arduous task of detangling it. 

“Do you know why love is stronger than destiny, Owlette?” She said, finally.

“I don’t, Lady Yennefer.” 

“Because love is a choice,” she said, tightly. “Destiny is like a road. Do you fall in love with everyone who shares a road with you?”

“Dear Melitele, no,” Ciri said, frowning. 

“So,” Yennefer continued. “You can walk alongside someone for years, even. But to fall in love with them, or to care for them in any way, means you made a choice. Sometimes, you’ll change the road you are traveling on because of love-”

“Like Jaskier did!” Ciri offered, and Yennefer had to find herself the willpower to only give that information a deep sigh in response. 

“Sure,” she said, dryly. “But the point is that maybe people’s destinies are connected, and that means nothing, just that they are sharing the same path. But love is something that you search for. It is something that demands effort and sacrifice to work. It is consuming. And it’s a choice. If someone took you against your will and forced you to go down a road you didn’t want to, what would you call that?”

“Kidnapping,” Ciri answered. 

“Exactly,” Yennefer said. “To capture one’s love without asking them first, without conquering them beforehand, is like kidnapping your choice. Your heart. And this is what Geralt did when he made his last wish to the Djinn.”

Ciri said nothing, mulling over the weighted words Yennefer had just let out. So she carried on, combing the girl’s hair carefully not to rip the strands apart.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ciri said, finally - Yennefer sighed. 

“Because that is a problem that only concerns Geralt and me,” she said. “Not you. Your relationship with Geralt is one thing; my relationship with him is a totally different matter.”

“But this upsets you.”

“Yes,” she said and sighed. “I appreciate your concern, owlette. But it is not your duty to care for my feelings, as far as Geralt is concerned.”

Ciri said nothing, but Yennefer wasn't fooled - she knew it wasn't the last of it by the anxious shifting of her hips. Yennefer had to hold her head in place several times so Ciri would keep quiet for long enough for her to work through the mess of her hair.

“Do you think he did the same with Jaskier?” Ciri asked, and Yennefer snorted. 

“That fool loves Geralt out of his own free will,” she said and sighed. “Ciri, I don't mean to soil the image of Geralt you hold dear to your heart. Geralt made a mistake with terrible consequences to me, to the point where a simple apology won't cut it. I have my reasons to be angry, and I will stand by them. However, that does not change the fact that he loves you and cares for you as deeply as one would care about their own flesh and blood.”

“He’s tied to me by destiny,” Ciri said, shrugging. 

“And he loves you by choice,” Yennefer said. “And a choice made-”

“Is a responsibility taken,” Ciri completed, frowning. Yennefer watched the cogs in her head turn, connecting sentences to meaning, and braced herself for the inevitable barrage of questions she would ask. “So if love is a choice, it is a kind of responsibility?” 

“You could say so.”

“So when he’s taking care of me…”

“It’s because he chose to.”

“And you don’t want to care for him because he took away your choice.”

“Yes.”

“But why is that so important?” Ciri asked, finally. “I wish I didn’t have to make my choices. All of them have- so many consequences. Why would you care so much?” 

Yennefer paused, brush hovering mid-air. Her first impulse was to argue - throw the brush on the floor and storm out of the room. But this was Ciri.

“Cirilla,” she said, tightly, “Look at me.”

She did, turning around to sit back on her heels, eyeing Yennefer suspiciously. 

“There’s nothing more miserable than having your choice taken away from you,” she said, gravely, hands pressing tightly on Ciri’s shoulders. “And I pray to all of the gods above that you may never know personally how deeply broken can someone be when their free will is taken away from them. I wish I could shield you from it. But the best I could do is to teach you what I know, and hope that it is enough. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes, Lady Yennefer,” Ciri said, eyes open wide in surprise at her serious tone. She placed the comb on her lap, turning Ciri back around and braiding her hair loosely. 

“Now enough of this talk,” she said, tying it off at the end. “Brush your teeth and let’s go to bed.”

“But Lady Yennefer, Geralt promised to meet me after dinner!” Ciri protested, and Yennefer scoffed, marching towards her bed to pull off the covers. 

“Geralt would promise you the world,” She said, “And yet he wouldn’t have the heart to enforce basic hygiene. Put some oil on your pimples too or they’ll scar.”

“Geralt has plenty of scars,” Ciri said, defiant, but stood up and went to the washbasin anyways - Yennefer laid back on the bed, fishing a book from the pile on her bedside table. A grimoire, like the many she had scattered around the room - it didn’t matter, however, seeing as its sole purpose was to serve as a prop as she pretended to read while waiting for Ciri to fall asleep. 

She could hear the girl muttering under her breath, but paid her no mind. One had to learn, as she did pretty early in her relationship with Ciri, that the key to retaining one’s sanity when appointed as caretaker to Cirilla of Cintra was not taking the girl very seriously. 

Most of the time, at least.

  
  
  


“Were you waiting for me out here?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, biting down on the apple he held in his hand as she closed the door behind her. It had taken a while for Ciri to fall asleep - more than usual, which didn’t bode well for the night ahead. Yennefer had tried almost everything short of knocking the girl out cold - lavender in her pillow, valerian root tea, whatever she heard could make one sleep better, but it was for nothing. 

“I promised Ciri I’d see her after dinner,” he said, and the way his voice sounded pulled at her navel, drawing her to him - his recklessness, however, made it easier for her to control her treacherous body. 

“Ciri goes to bed religiously at the same time every day,” she said dryly. “The routine helps with insomnia. You would know if you didn’t give her enough leeway to do whatever she wishes.”

“That’s why I sent her to you,” he said - she glared at him, and he had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m sorry.”

“Spare me your juvenile wit,” she said, crossing her arms. “I didn’t call you here because I miss you.” 

If Geralt had anything to say about that, he kept it to himself.

“I was worried,” he said, instead, “Because you were adamant it was incredibly private information, and you needed to see me in person-”

“I need you to take me to Cintra,” She said, and she could see his face morph from confused to utter disbelief - he scoffed, waiting for her to take back what she had just said, but frowned as he realized she meant it. 

“Yen-” he said. 

“Don’t,” she answered, raising a finger. “I’m doing this for Cirilla. Not for you, not for me. For her. She’s been getting constant nightmares about Calanthe.” 

“And that makes you think walking into a battlefield is a good idea how?” Geralt hissed in disbelief. “Cintra is completely taken over. If you want to get yourself killed-”

“Then what am I supposed to do, Geralt?” She raged, throwing her hands up in the air in defeat. “Because Melitele help me I have no other clue on what I am supposed to do to fix this! Every night Cirilla will wake up screaming bloody murder because of the same fucking dream! Calanthe trapped in a cell, being tortured - torn to pieces, skinned alive, burned, beaten, and begging Cirilla to just go back and say she’s fine, that she made it out. Can you imagine what we’ve been through the past few months? Ciri is going crazy, I’ve had to pull her away from the gates one too many times; what else am I supposed to do? Let her walk into a trap? Someone is taunting her, Geralt. Nilfgaard has reached a new fucking low, and I’m at my wits’ end on how to solve it.”

Geralt said nothing, merely stared at the closed door to Yennefer’s quarters in contemplation. 

“Yen-”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” She said, and he stared at her - yellow eyes, the cat-like pupils, and so much regret and sorrow in his gaze she wanted to curl up inwards, hide away from the world until there was nothing that could hurt her as much as Geralt’s eyes did. She wouldn’t, of course. The time for hiding had passed when she crossed the gates of Aretuza for the first time, and the world she lived in had no place for nicety. Maybe the silent begging for forgiveness had worked on Jaskier, but it was futile on her - what Geralt had done was far worse than a couple of thoughtless and insulting words said in the heat of the moment. 

Not that she would say that out loud, knowing how Jaskier had reacted to that fight. She wasn’t purposely rude when she could avoid it, unlike people’s perception of her.

“Yennefer,” he said, and each letter rolled off his lips as if a knife was cutting him up from the inside. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I know you think- Look. I don’t want to say it’s not something like- It could be a curse. It’s possible. I wouldn’t put it beneath Nilfgaard. But it is also possible that this is just a product of what she’s been through. Have you considered that?”

“Yes,” she said, though less than she would admit. Because there was something in her gut telling her to look further - to investigate deeper, to get to the source of the problem and fix it. “But it could also not be. You know what they’ve done to track her down. You know this isn’t a stretch.” 

“I’m not saying it is,” Geralt insisted. “I’m just saying that- Look. Say we’ll go to Cintra. Say there’s something leftover of Calanthe for you to cast a spell with. Say that it works, and she won’t get that nightmare any longer. But she will still have nightmares, like you and I do. I just want to make sure that you know this can be maybe something that is just not fixable.”

“I didn’t think you were so eager to give up on her,” Yennefer said, and Geralt recoiled as if hit, closing his eyes in reflex as the words hit him with the strength of a thousand bricks. 

“Do not put words in my mouth Yennefer,” he grunted, drawing in a shaky breath. “I’m just trying to make sure that this situation isn’t made worse by you thinking that this is yet another opportunity to show off how smart you are.”

“Geralt, fuck you,” she hissed, stabbing him on the chest with her finger. “You asked me to take care of her. You asked me to teach her. You knew I was the right person to take care of her after Triss herself gave up. If this is your level of distrust in me, you might as well tell me now, so I can pack my bags and leave right away!”

“I-” He said, but shook his head. “Yennefer. I’m- I apologize. I’m just-”

“You’re just what? Oh!” She said, and slowly clapped her hands - Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see it! The almighty White Wolf is scared!” 

“Of course I am, Yennefer!” He raged, nostrils flaring in anger. She paused at his admission, taking a deep breath. She hadn’t noticed how angry he had made her until she held still, chest heaving with the effort to gulp down as much air as it could, fingers shaking with emotion. Geralt turned away from her, facing the stone wall, and leaned his forehead on the exposed rock bricks as he tried to calm himself down also. She could see his back shifting, trembling in his attempt to calm himself down. 

“This was useless,” she said, rubbing her face and running her fingers through her hair. It undid the curls, and she probably looked wild, but there wasn’t much she could do and neither did she care. 

“Yen- Yennefer,” He corrected himself, turning back around. “I’m not invincible and neither are you. Ciri is going to be utterly miserable if something happened to either of us. And this is just us putting ourselves on harm’s way for a mere chance. I’m not saying I’m not doing it,” he rushed as she opened her mouth to complain, “I’m just- asking. Are you sure? Is your hunch worth putting your life in risk and causing Ciri immense pain?”

“Yes,” she said, holding his stare. “Yes, it is.” 

He sighed, then, rubbing his face and pulling his hair free from the half-assed ponytail it was in just to tie it again properly. 

“So what exactly,” he said, tiredly, and she knew she had won - she breathed in deeply, relieved. “In layman’s terms, I mean. What exactly are you doing?”

“A spell,” she said, clearing her throat after her outburst. “I’ve contacted Tissaia. She has a couple of ideas, but most will need something of Calanthe to work. Ciri has nothing. I need to go to Cintra. But-” She swallowed, feeling her pride kicking and screaming inside her chest, “I cannot go alone. So I called you.”

“Hmm,” he grunted, considering. “And how do you plan on getting us into the country?”

“A portal,” she said, simply. 

“Ah, fuck-” Geralt complained, and her lips began to twist upward in amusement when they heard it - a piercing wail coming from inside her room. 

Ciri.

When she was a young scholar in Aretuza, she would sometimes wonder how Tissaia managed to transport herself so quickly to wherever there was a problem. She thought it was some sort of magic she hadn’t learned - teleportation, rather than portals, or maybe she’d just do a very realistic astral projection and wasn’t actually there. 

Funny how many things one understands as they age. 

They scrambled towards the room, standing by the bed in less than a second. Ciri bolted upright from where she lay, eyes wide in horror and pain, and screamed in sheer desperation, fingers finding their way into her hair and tugging at her scalp. Yennefer, in practiced motions, took hold of her wrists, prying her hair out of her fingers and holding her hands down on her lap. “Cirilla,” she called, “Cirilla. We’re here. We’re here-”

Ciri heaved, finally seeming to wake up - she eyed Yennefer, then Geralt, then back at Yennefer; her lower lip trembled, and that was all the warning she had before Ciri threw herself into her arms. 

“It’s alright,” she cooed, rubbing circles on her back as Ciri sobbed, wetting her chemise. Then, she felt it - Ciri raising a hand towards Geralt, who took it-

And was instantly pulled into the awkward hug they were in. 

The motion threw him off balance - not wanting to fall on top of them, but unable to let Ciri go, he fell towards the bed, pulling the two of them with him as he fell with an oof on top of silk sheets. He eyed Yennefer, apologetic, and she wanted to complain; to scream at the two of them for pulling her into this mess, this family, this bed, this love that didn’t belong to her, this acceptance being dangled in front of her eyes just to remind her none of it was real- 

But she said nothing. As Ciri sobbed on her chest, Geralt scooted closer, holding the two of them together in a one-armed embrace, kissing the top of Ciri’s head in a silent reassurance he was there. Yennefer said nothing, unable to. The whole situation put a chokehold on her throat, tightened her heart, and it hurt so much, it hurt so much-

“She is suffering!,” Ciri sobbed, gasping for air, “Mommy! She is suffering and I can’t do anything to help her!”

“I know,” she answered, kissing her forehead, avoiding Geralt’s gaze like the plague, feeling it burn with unanswered questions she didn’t know how to answer, “I know, owlette.” 

  
  


Geralt was right about one thing - Cintra _was_ a battlefield, overrun with corpses and crawling with Nilfgaardians. And getting there, since Yennefer had never really _been_ to the place, was no easy task. It was not like she could plop a portal on the castle’s battlements and be done with it; if she were to survive, she needed to be inconspicuous. 

That was why, after many hours of planning and consideration, Yennefer and Geralt agreed upon a portal a couple of miles away from the main road, and from there on a couple of hours worth of travel until they reached the city gates, which they’d have to do by foot. There was no taking Roach through a portal, as far as she was concerned. Geralt seemed less than thrilled, but she couldn’t care less. 

“I won’t have Roach,” He had complained, their bodies still wrapped around Cirilla after Yennefer had procured a belladonna brew to help her sleep. 

“You will _survive_ without a horse, Geralt,” she replied and rolled her eyes, fingers still on Ciri’s scalp. Of course, she didn’t _like_ the idea of walking to Cintra either, but she had learned pretty early on in life that sometimes she had to give a little to gain more.

All of that was to say that she, logically, knew Cintra was a coastal country - she figured it’d be easier if they were to portal on a beach, and then follow the sea until they reached the Capital. It was a really sound plan, even, until the portal all but dropped them well into the ocean. 

“You’re lucky I know how to swim with my armor on,” Geralt said, sipping on his ale. “I’d be dead if I didn’t.”

“I suddenly find myself wishing you didn’t have such knowledge,” she said dryly, tying her hair up. They did get out of the sea safely, albeit with a liberal amount of cursing from both parties - but decided it was in their best interests to stop and rest at a tavern before continuing their journey. She wished she could punch the smug smirk off of Geralt’s face. “When you make your own portals, feel free to direct them wherever you want them to land.” 

“I’ll pass,” Geralt said. Despite being early at night, the tavern was empty. She supposed it was simply because of how close to the actual battlefield they were; in any case, the presence of Nilfgaard could be seen and felt everywhere. 

The ale was vile. 

“I’m not even sure how you can drink that,” she wrinkled her nose, crossing her arms over the table. 

“I’ve had worse things in life,” he shrugged.

“I believe it,” she said dryly. “How’s Jaskier?”

“Oh, _cold_ , Yennefer,” he smirked. “He’s- fine. Better. Much better. Went to Oxenfurt when I came to Ellander.”

“Good,” she said, giving her ale a tentative sip - still utter crap, and she frowned. “I’m glad.”

“I’m too,” he said, then sighed - Yennefer knew what he was going to ask before he opened his mouth. Could smell it, even. “Yennefer. Why did- Why is Ciri calling you _that_?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” She lied. “Cirilla calls me Lady Yennefer. As you should. The utter tragedy of your upbringing.”

He laughed, then - low in his throat, and slowly, and oh so endearingly. 

“In your _dreams_ , Yen,” he said, drinking his ale, and she felt something low in her stomach, a pressure on the skin connecting her thigh to her pelvis, a tightening on her heart - he looked so lovely like this, calloused hands tapping on his ale tankard, shoulders eased low, smile dancing on his lips, and it would be so _easy_ , so _easy_ to let herself believe all of which her treacherous heart was feeling and give in; to let him take the reigns, to forego control, to make the pain _stop-_

She thought, bitterly, that Geralt would never have to struggle every day to be his own person. It was a certain curse bestowed on women, to live every day as a battle for the ownership of their own lives. She was her own person alright. But the cost was so high, and the pain was so _intense_ , she found herself wondering not for the first time if it wouldn’t be easier to just _give up_. 

She would never, of course. It had been too long - she had been through a lot just to be her own person to give up now. But it was in moments like this, when she saw the black of his undershirt peeking behind his armor, his hair falling around his shoulders like the first snowfall of winter, that she pondered on the utter cruelty of men, so eager to ruin someone so completely for daring not to belong to anyone. The feeling bubbled in her chest, choking her - this foolish heart, she thought, desperately, this reckless heart, believing this _lie_ just because it shrunk and bled when alone. 

Between being loved and being free, she’d always choose her freedom. 

But it was so _lonely_. 

She opened her mouth, eager to give him a piece of her mind - to demand reparations for making her so miserable, so vulnerable, to oblige him to grovel at her feet for the utter _torture_ he’d subjected her to, to scream and yell and break things because she was so _angry_ , because it was so _unfair_ , and it because it was so _painful_ \- 

She didn’t have the chance to, however. Because as soon as she opened her mouth, a squadron of highly armed Nilfgaardian soldiers barged through the tavern door. 

“Ah, Geralt of Rivia,” their captain said, bowing down minutely. “Just the man I was looking for.” 

  
  


“I appreciate your patience,” The captain - Pushkin, he said he was called, or something of the sort; Yennefer couldn’t trust her hearing because of the roaring in her ears - looked sheepish enough. Geralt merely grunted. As soon as the captain walked through the door, Geralt’s sword was unsheathed and Yennefer’s chaos was ready to strike - it took nearly half an hour, the captain’s sword on the floor and the contingent of the squadron being sent outside the tavern for them to even entertain the idea of listening to what the man had to say. “I know the two of you aren’t exactly on Nilfgaard’s side-”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted; she found she didn’t want to spare words on him either. Captain Pushkin knew he wasn’t welcome, or so his fearful eyes indicated, worriedly jumping from Geralt’s swords to the tavern’s doors.

“I have a contract for you, if you’ll take it,” The captain said. “I tried with another witcher first, you see. Found one, but he just got himself killed in his first hour-”

“What was his name?” Geralt asked - she could feel him tensing where he sat, right next to her, dreading the moment a known name would roll off the soldier’s lips. She was utterly astonished to find herself apprehensive as well. 

“Ansel,” Pushkin answered. “Sounds familiar?”

“That’s none of your business,” Geralt said, drinking more of his ale. Pushkin cleared his throat, uncomfortable, but she could feel the minute shift of his relief against her. No one she knew, and no one he knew either. “Tell me more about this contract.” 

“There’s a wraith in the Cintran Castle,” he answered, evenly. A wraith, Yennefer thought, and raised an eyebrow in contemplation. Maybe that was the source of Ciri’s nightmares, not some Nilfgaardian twisted magic. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, and she barely wanted to consider it as it was, but to think Fringilla had become capable of inflicting such harm on a child-

She took a deep breath, exhaling evenly. No use pondering on such questions. 

“I’m surprised there aren’t more,” Geralt grunted. 

“We’ve burned the bodies,” Pushkin said, waving a hand, completely oblivious that it was definitely the wrong thing to say. Yennefer eyed the set of Geralt’s jaw and wondered if he’d have much trouble twisting the man’s neck with his bare fingers. Probably not. “This one, though, was- I don’t know. I was born and raised in the country-”

“I didn’t ask for your story, Captain, because I don’t give a shit about it,” he said dryly. “The wraith. Keep talking.”

“I’ve seen wraiths, that’s what I was saying,” Pushkin said, but had the decency to look scared. He shifted in place, armor clanking loudly in the empty tavern. “This one is just- beyond everything I’ve seen. I’m supposed to clear off the castle by the end of the month, and yet I haven’t even been able to cross the Castle gates in what, four months?”

“And yet Nilfgaard didn’t think to send you any aid,” Yennefer said, breaking her silence. The Captain eyed her, eyebrow arched, and scoffed. 

“And whatever do you know about battle, woman?” He said, shaking his head. Geralt wanted to move, and she held him down with a hand on his thigh, smiling sweetly. 

“Enough,” she said, “But I suppose a low-level soldier like you wouldn’t know of Yennefer of Vengerberg if she insulted you to your face.”

“I’m not some- oh,” he said, recognition dawning on his face as he took her in. He swallowed, then, acutely aware that Geralt was not, by far, the most dangerous thing in the room - his fear was intoxicating, and she got high off of it, crossing her hands on the table with a smile dancing on her lips. “You’re- the Arsonist of Sodden.” 

“Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before,” she lied. Of course, she had - had laughed for a week about it too. “That’s certainly _not_ the Butcher of Blaviken, but it does carry some weight. Tell me, Captain. Was it always that bad?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. “We used to be able to access some parts of the castle, and we knew how to avoid the Wraith too. It used to keep to a single room, mostly, some very bloody exceptions aside. There were a couple of rooms it didn’t like us meddling with either, but it was anybody’s guess where and when it would attack; in the end, we just closed off an entire floor to be safe. But a couple of months ago we had to rebury some corpses, and I think maybe-”

“That made it angrier,” Geralt said, drinking more of his ale - he raised his nearly-empty tankard to the tavern-keeper, who looked like he was about to shit himself in fear; of the reunion happening under his roof, the witcher, the sorceress or the soldier, she couldn’t tell. The man staggered to their table with another tankard, placing it by Geralt’s side and scurrying off as if he was going to be smitten where he stood.

“Perhaps,” Pushkin said. “I’ve lost short of a hundred men trying to get the castle back in time for His Majesty’s visit, but it was for nothing.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, pondering on what he’d been told. “A thousand crowns.”

“Well, that’s- well,” Pushkin spluttered, “Way too much! Seventy hundred and fifty, at most, is what I can afford.” 

“Nine hundred.”

“Eight hundred and fifty.”

“I’m not risking my life for less than that, sir,” Geralt said dryly. “You’re the one with a Wraith problem, not me.”

“My good sir, it is killing people,” Captain Pushkin insisted.

“Again,” Geralt said, “Your problem, not mine.” 

Pushkin eyed them then, something like disgust twisting the pitiful mustache on his face. 

“Very well then,” Pushkin said, clearing his throat and standing up. “I guess it’s true what they say about witchers and emotions. Nine hundred it is. Once you’re ready, we’ll be outside waiting to escort you to the castle.”

“And,” Yennefer added, “You are not to utter a word of this to your superiors.” 

“I wouldn’t anyway,” Captain Pushkin said wryly. “I’m not tasked to hunt either of you, but I’m on direct orders to clean the castle until the end of the month, so you’ll see which one I’m more concerned about. I’m sure the empire will find you again if they want you so badly.”

“Of course they will,” Yennefer said, clearly stating she did not believe a word she herself had just said. “We’ll meet you outside once we’re done with our drinks.” 

“I suppose,” Pushkin said, bowing ever so slightly. “Pleasure dealing with you lot.”

“Sure,” Geralt said and watched him leave the tavern, shutting the door with such strength that it nearly shook the entirety of the wooden building. 

“He’s going to tell on you,” Yennefer noted as soon as he was out of earshot - Geralt, dropping all the pretense of being an emotionless witcher, scoffed. 

“I think he already did,” he said. “But he does sound desperate enough. He’s lost too many resources in a short amount of time, and if Emhyr comes to Cintra and can’t get in the castle, his head can say goodbye to his neck. He’ll get us in, which is all we needed.”

“Awfully convenient.”

“I suppose,” he shrugged. “Hope you can take us out of there in time.”

“I’d hope so,” she said dryly. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee your pay, however.”

“Why do you think I asked that much? Never thought I’d get it in the first place,” Geralt shrugged, downing the last of his ale - he frowned, eyeing the empty tankard. “Might as well watch him squirm. Melitele’s tits, this is really bad.”

“I’m sorry, did I fucking stutter?” Yennefer said, shaking her head in disbelief. 

  
  
  
  
  


Ciri would tell her about Cintra whenever they had the time. She’d go off about the clear green of the seas, the faint outline of the Skellige Islands in the distance; the pastures, the colorful stained glass of the castle windows, the warmth of the people, the food. Ciri would talk and talk and talk until she became hoarse, and then she’d be quiet for a long time, pondering on what she had left behind. Yennefer had suggested once, seeing the utter despair threatening to creep up to the girl, that she made lists of the things she wanted to do once she could go back to her country. Last she knew, said list was five parchments long and counting. 

As they rode on Nilfgaardian horses through the road leading to the castle, Yennefer was suddenly glad she hadn’t mentioned to Ciri where they were going. 

She could see where there was beauty just by looking at the skeletons of what once was Cintra - It was clear to see in the delicate archway of the city gates or the molten stained glass dripping down the walls of charred houses. But if it was heartbreaking for _her_ , who had never stepped in the country before, she couldn’t possibly imagine what it would be like for Ciri, to be so painfully reminded there would never be a home to go back to. 

There were no citizens walking by, only Nilfgaardian soldiers. Pushkin, in trying to make small talk, mentioned that the first settlers from Nilfgaard would come with the Emperor, but soon dropped any will to hold a conversation when he saw the deep scowl twisting Geralt’s face. She supposed it was for the best. If Pushkin mentioned “civilizing efforts” for a second time, she’d throw all caution to the wind and stab him with a letter opener.

Maybe that was why Pushkin all but dumped them inside the castle and closed the gates shut as soon as they arrived. Between them and the Wraith, Yennefer seriously doubted which one he was more eager to see go. 

“That was rather anticlimactic,” she remarked, eyeing the disheveled castle grounds with a raised eyebrow. There were two piles of dirt that looked suspiciously like mass graves; crates and wooden boxes were overturned and broken, as if someone had thrown them against the thick stone walls. 

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, pulling his silver sword out of its sheath. Yennefer saw his medallion trembling - taking in a deep breath, she readied herself to attack-

She smelled it first - rotten flesh, coppery blood, dust, and anger, so thick it coated the inside of her throat, making it difficult to swallow.

Then she saw it, passing straight through the castle doors, hovering a few feet off the floor - long hair disheveled around bony shoulders, sunken eyes weeping black blood, a mouth open wide in a perpetual scream, skin sliding off the rotten flesh, but also- 

Also-

“Geralt,” she whispered, because on top of the creature’s head, glimmering under the setting sun, was a crown. 

Geralt didn’t answer - stepping forward, he eyed the ghost straight in the eyes and moved his left hand into the Yrden sign, ready to strike. 

“Calanthe,” he called-

And the Wraith _screamed_.

  
  
  


“Please tell me we have enough time,” She heaved as they ran down the maze of corridors in the castle. They needed to find Calanthe’s body, that much she knew - but how could one tell a pile of bones apart in a mass grave? Yennefer was suddenly reminded that Geralt thought coming to Cintra would be a bad idea in the first place. Not willing to admit defeat, she decided she’d only consider portalling them the hell away from whatever wretched thing was left of Queen Calanthe when it was almost gutting them. 

The castle was a maze of overturned furniture, charred walls and oddly shaped brown stains on beds and chairs. She had heard about the Massacre of Cintra, but made an effort not to think about it too hard - more importantly, not to think about how eager she had been to throw the whole country to the wolves because of her anger at the Council. She could hear it as she ran, the screams of the people being slaughtered, of blood being spilled, of nobles choking on the poison they preferred to whatever torture Nilfgaard would concoct to wipe the land clean. For the White Flame, she thought bitterly, what wouldn’t they do? When she put Ciri to sleep at night, she often thought of Calanthe, of what she must’ve felt during those final moments; the feeling of being trapped, of being chased down to her breaking point, the wretched choice to let Cirilla go-

She wondered what would she have done in her place, and the mere thought filled her with dread she could not shake off. 

“We don’t,” Geralt grunted, sprinting by her side. He seemed to know where they were going, but Yennefer couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe_ , running for her life and away from the ghosts of a past Ciri would never get back. Blood on the walls, vomit on the stairs, stains on the stones. Broken beds, burned books, splintered doors. Within the Castle of Cintra, the siege had never ended. It was merely suspended in time - perpetually under attack, forever caught in a war it never hoped to win. “I’ve never seen a Wraith like- think I damaged it enough it needs to recuperate, but-”

“Fucking-” she hissed - they turned a left, a right, then ran up a flight of stairs, and Yennefer’s foot caught on something slippery; she lost her balance, arms flailing to stop the inevitable fall down the stairs, when a pair of strong hands held her by the waist, steadying her in place. She balked, looking down at the suspiciously brown stain she had slipped on. “Oh _Gods_ \- what is- Geralt, is this what I’m-”

“Decomposition fluid,” he hissed, leaning against a wall to catch his breath.”Maybe fat.”

Yennefer heaved, but nothing came out. Geralt wiped his face, with his hands, trying to get the blood out of his eyes - the Wraith had managed to cut him fairly deeply on his cheek - the number of potions he had to take to be able to walk it off had put dark circles under his blackened eyes, thickened veins looking sickly purple under the pale moonlight coming through the windows.

“How did she survive this?” She whispered, eyeing around her, the smell of rotten flesh, the evidence of a crime no God under this sky would be willing to forgive - she heaved once more, gagging at the sheer _violence_ of Cintra’s demise. Why would anyone do this? _Why_ would they-

“Yen,” Geralt called. “Don’t dwell on it. Calanthe’s worry is rubbing off on you. Ciri is fine, she’s back in Ellander, she’s _fine_ -”

“I _know_ ,” Yennefer said. “I’m _aware_. I just- I didn’t know it was so- How much of it did she-”

“Everything,” Geralt said gravelly. “She saw everything.” They stood in silence, contemplating what Cirilla of Cintra had gone through entirely on her own- 

They heard it, then. 

A terrible screech, the sound of long talons dragging against polished stone, some two floors beneath them - not merely the sound of a creature, Yennefer realized in horror, but the sound of a _mother_ , of a woman who had lost _everything_ -

And craved revenge. 

“I have an idea,” Geralt grunted, pushing her to climb whatever was left of the stairs two steps at a time. “Calanthe jumped off her bedroom window. In the last floor; I know where it is-”

“Do you mean the room where Pushkin said specifically no one could get in?” She panted. 

“Yes,” Geralt said. “Look, I have an- Wraiths are created because of unfinished business. What if she’s still here because she doesn’t know Ciri is fine? They dug her up for Emhyr’s visit-”

“Disturbed her grave, she got even angrier, and Ciri began having nightmares,” Yennefer said, pondering. It made sense. “The timeline works. So how-”

The screeching got louder, more intense, sound piercing so deeply her shoulders involuntarily rose to her ears, and it got closer, and closer, and closer- 

“Oh shit,” Yennefer cursed. “Plan, quickly, tell me-”

“We get into her old room,” Geralt said, hurriedly. “If you had to hold her with your chaos, how long do you think you could hold her down?” 

“Some five minutes, six if I concentrate,” She said. 

“I’ll draw her inside the room, you hold her down. Fine. So now we just need to prove to her that Ciri is fine,” He said. 

“I know how,” she said, reaching into her breast pocket for a letter - the envelope was signed with Ciri’s terrible handwriting. “I brought this for the spell. Are you reading it? Leaving it on her body? Where is her body? Shouldn’t we burn it? The fuck are you doing, Geralt?” 

“Improvising,” he said, taking the envelope from her hands and taking her hand, pulling her away from the wall just as the screeching got dangerously close, “Now run.”

  
  


They found Calanthe’s room easily enough - following the trail of broken bones and dilacerated corpses. The door was nearly coming off of its hinges, and Geralt snarled at it; the medallion on his neck rattling his entire chest plate with its strength. The smell was horrible, _terrible_ , and Yennefer suddenly wondered if it would be so bad to open a portal and leave Calanthe to eat away at her foes one last time- 

“Once we get in, she’ll find us in half a second,” Geralt said. “Are you ready?” 

“Fuck _off_ ,” she cursed, kicking the door open- 

Queen Calanthe was laying on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room - cradled to her chest, Cirilla wept the final goodbye. 

She looked around, trying to ask Geralt what in the actual _fuck_ , but Geralt was nowhere to be seen. Ciri and Calanthe were talking, but she couldn’t hear a word; all she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears, a staggering pain in her abdomen, the sound of battle, of _war_ , the screams of terror of her- 

Then _she_ was Calanthe, laying on the lounge, holding Ciri’s face tightly, knowing it was the last time. She took in her eyes, the quiver of her lips, the softness of her hair, and wondered if she would grow as beautifully as her mother did, if she would live longer. _You are the lion cub of Cintra_ , she felt her lips say, and Ciri’s face was pure pain; she wished she could stop it, that she could somehow make it all end, but she had failed. She had failed and there would be no turning back- 

“Find Geralt of Rivia,” she heard herself say, “He is your Destiny.” 

_I love you_ , Ciri screamed - and she was still screaming when Mousesack ( _who?)_ took her away from her arms. She felt herself take a deep breath, the pain _overwhelming_ , and felt her legs taking her to the window - she tried to stop herself, to walk back to the lounge, but it was for nothing. She climbed on the windowsill, feeling the wind caressing her face. Beneath her, her entire kingdom burned in agony. 

_Oh hear me, Gods,_ she thought, _hear me gods, old and new. Hear a mother’s cry. May Cirilla find her way back home_. 

She took a step into nothingness-

“Yen!” Geralt yelled, and she felt herself being pulled down - she blinked, and suddenly there was no burning Cintra under her feet - only the ledge she was about to jump off. 

She gasped, her shock allowing Geralt to pull her away from the window. She panted, eyeing around warily, unsure of _what_ had happened. The overturned room. The broken fireplace. The cobwebs and the dust, the deceptively eerie silence. _Only a vision,_ she lied to herself, and her chest ached with a pain so intense, it felt like her heart was being pulled out of her chest, and she turned around to find _something_ to hold herself up- 

Laying on the chaise lounge, looking as if she had just died, was the cold corpse of Calanthe of Cintra. 

“How?” She wheezed. “It’s been _four_ years-” 

“It’s the curse,” Geralt said, hurriedly. “She’s getting closer, get ready-”

She didn’t have the time to steady herself - there was a loud explosion, whatever was left of the door splintering into smithereens, and Yennefer found herself being thrown at the stone walls. She heaved when the air was kicked out of her lungs, and steadied herself up-

The wraith had her hands aimed towards Geralt, and she couldn’t _think_ \- screaming an incantation, she channeled her chaos around the creature, a whirlwind of strength holding it in place; the wraith _screeched_ , so loudly whatever was left of the windows shattered, so loudly her ears bled, and she held on tightly, muscles rippling under the strain of keeping her hold on the makeshift cage. 

“Geralt!” She screamed, feeling the small capillaries inside her nose burst - she would not last five minutes. She would not-

Geralt picked the letter from his pouch, opening it with trembling fingers, and dragged himself to the side of Calanthe’s corpse. The screaming was so loud, it made him dizzy. 

_“Grandma dear,_ ” he yelled, reading out loud; the wraith twisted and turned in her grasp, and she could taste the blood seeping from her gums. She gritted her teeth, holding on tightly. _“Grandma dearest, I don’t know if you can hear me wherever you are. If you can, let me tell you: I am all fish stew. I miss your voice so much sometimes I think you’re calling me. I’ll be having lunch or having lessons and I’ll hear you calling Ciri! And I look back and you’re not there, and I get so sad-”_

The wraith stopped screaming, and Yennefer shook the ringing off her ears, finally able to focus enough to redirect her magic to its jaws, shutting it close. It struggled terribly, long talons digging deep grooves on whatever stone it could reach - Geralt eyed her with eyes wide, and she bared her teeth. 

“Keep _fucking_ going!” She screamed, groaning in pain with the effort to hold the Wraith down. She wouldn’t last. She wouldn’t-

 _“Geralt is a very nice man, Grandma,”_ he read, _“You were right about him, and I have learned so much! I wish I could tell you about Kaer Morhen. I put itching powder inside of Lambert’s armor once because he said mean things about you, but he thinks Geralt did it. I know you won’t tell. You never did, even when I messed with Eist. Geralt is very patient, and he likes me very much, and I trust him with all my heart, just like I trusted Eist. I love him just the same.”_

Miraculously, or so it seemed, the Wraith stopped struggling - its empty, sunken eyes glued on Geralt, the nails on her talons inching closer to its hands. Yennefer could feel it give into the strength of her hold, its presence caving into itself, weakened against its bonds, but didn’t trust it enough to let go. 

“It’s working,” Geralt said, and she honestly, _honestly_ could’ve punched him dead-

“Then _why did you stop_!?” She shrieked, and he cleared his throat. 

_“Grandma,”_ he continued, _“I’ve found someone else too. She looks very mean and she can be very rude, but she has a big heart that she thinks I don’t know about. She always hugs me before she goes to bed, and she gets all the knots off of my hair just like you did, and once when Jaskier was sick, she was the one who helped him back to normal. She thinks I don’t know about it, but I see her and I do. I hope you’re not mad I’ve found another mother beside my own. But I love her too, Grandma, just as I love you._ Yen-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she said, feeling her cheeks wet with tears. The eyes on the wraith moved from Geralt to her - she felt herself being scrutinized, those hollow, bottomless pits staring deeply into her soul-

 _“I miss you so much I can’t breathe sometimes,”_ Geralt continued, voice thick, “ _Now that I sleep with Lady Yennefer I don’t feel it anymore, but when I slept on my own, I would cry so hard I’d feel like I had passed out because of how much I miss you. I miss your smile and your hair and I miss you telling me I’m a menace. I miss you every day and I swear to you I will never forget you. But grandma,”_ he choked-

Her hold on the wraith slipped. 

She could feel it clawing its way out of her once tightly woven magic - there was a crackle of magic in the air, smelling of ozone and death, deafening her already damaged ears; Yennefer stood, willing to use whatever chaos she had left to hold it back once again, but the creature stood, more woman than a beast, and walked - hovered, really - towards the body on the lounge, eyeing it coldly. 

_“Keep going, Geralt,”_ Queen Calanthe finally said, back from the dead, her specter trembling under the moonlight casting pale shadows around the wreckage of the room. 

_“I want you to know,”_ Geralt whispered, _“I want you to know that I am okay. Yennefer and Geralt are always there for me, and they care for me like I was their daughter in flesh and blood. I sing with Jaskier and braid Vesemir’s hair when he’s asleep. Eskel is very patient when he’s teaching me how to use a sword and Lambert always finds new curse words to teach me, even the very dirty ones you knew. There isn’t a single day I don’t think about you, but it turned out alright. I am alright, grandma. I’ll always miss you, but you can rest now. It’s okay.”_

There was a silence, then. 

So thick, so heavy, it was like the entire world had been stopped in its tracks. Yennefer held her breath, face wet with tears she hadn’t bothered wiping. Geralt’s hands trembled, paper fluttering in his fingers- 

“ _I suppose you kept your promise, then_ ,” Calanthe said. “ _Thank you, witcher. And you_ ,” she turned to Yennefer, hollow eyes digging holes into her soul. “ _Thank you, too_.” 

There was a loud _crack,_ as if the entirety of the building was collapsing in itself - the specter disappeared, the walls trembled- 

Calanthe’s corpse began to decay, ever so slowly, cheeks hollowing out, eyes sinking further into her skull, and a giant gash opened on her sternum, exposing her still fresh heart. 

Geralt and Yennefer stood still for what seemed to be years, ages even - finally, as Yennefer found her footing to stand, a golden box rolled from under the lounge, stopping right at her feet. 

“Keep my heart where my heart belongs,” She read the inscription on top, picking it up. It was heavy against her palm, coated in gold and encrusted in pearls and rubies. “Did she-?” 

“Maybe to bring it back to where Eist was buried,” Geralt said hoarsely. “Ard Skellige.”

“Not me,” she answered, turning it over in her trembling hands. “Ciri.”

“She isn’t decaying any more than that,” Geralt said, eyeing the corpse - he folded Ciri’s letter once more, and placed it under her hands, curling her fingers inwards until they grasped the paper loosely. “I think she might still have- But _what_?” 

“She has enough unfinished business to last a lifetime,” Yennefer said, testing the weight of the box in her hand. “If we were to end the curse, what should we do?” 

“Burn the corpse,” Geralt shrugged. “Bury it under a thick layer of salt and mountain ash. Cut off its head and place it between its legs.” 

“Hm,” Yennefer said. Calanthe’s heart was exposed, the box heavy in her hands. 

Geralt, finally realizing her intent, raised an eyebrow. 

“If you take that,” he said, “They’ll never be able to placate her with a proper burial.”

Yennefer closed her eyes - she could still see the burning of Cintra, the ruby reed blooming painfully on her stomach, the hurt and despair in Ciri’s eyes.

Her mind was utterly made up. 

“Oh,” Yennefer said, opening the box and kneeling by Calanthe’s corpse. “What a _shame_.”

  
  
  


Giving the box with Calanthe’s heart to Ciri went far better than what they could expect. She had hoped some crying, yes, maybe even dramatically so - what she didn’t expect was Ciri’s collected mourning, the repressed pain in her eyes as her nails bitten into a bloody pulp traced the engravings in gold and precious stones. 

“She always said,” she had offered, after a few minutes of expectant silence, “That if she were to die before Eist, that her body would have to be in Cintra, but her heart should be by his side. How did you- How did you _know_ that?” 

“I know people,” Yennefer had answered, vaguely. “Which, by the way. What did you mean when you wrote _you were all fish stew_?”

“Oh?” Ciri said, raising an eyebrow, then smiling softly. “Oh, it was our codeword. It meant that I am okay. She was- Grandma _really_ couldn’t cook. She tried a fish stew once, but it was atrocious. Eist thought it would be funny as a code word. The idea of Queen Calanthe being so utterly helpless in the kitchen-.”

“Talent runs in the family, then,” Geralt said, running his fingers through her hair, and nodded at the box. “You want to bury it now?”

“No,” Ciri shook her head. “No, I’ll keep it. One day, I’ll go back to Ard Skellige and I’ll give her a funeral worthy of a queen.” 

And at that moment, Yennefer thought, thrown off balance by Ciri’s insistent group hug with Geralt squished between the two of them, that Ciri was on her way to becoming quite a wise lady - one that could even, if she wanted, take back what was once rightfully hers. 

But that was not the moment for such talk. After bidding Ciri goodnight and promising he’d be back to see her soon, it was time for Geralt to leave - she walked by his side silently, accompanying him to the gates. 

“Sorry about your pay,” she said, and he grunted, tying his saddlebags in place despite Roach's incessant shifting. 

“I told you I knew I wasn't getting it,” he said, finally, just as he tied the last bag to the saddle and gave Roach a gentle pat. “Yen. About the letter-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she raised a hand, averting her eyes. “Forget it, Geralt.”

He paused, eyeing the outline of the temple. The weather was chilly, cold beginning to crawl back to gnaw on their bones. Geralt would soon make his way to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier in tow - this year, however, Ciri would not be going with them. 

“Nilfgaard is-” he said, and sighed. “They’re getting closer. Too close. It won’t be long until they hear there’s someone who looks a lot like the missing princess of Cintra in this temple-”

Yennefer eyed the gardens from the stables, the temple priestesses gossiping in the hallways, Nenneke’s soft steps around the dirt, watering her plants before turning in for the night. She took notice of the two of them and waved - Yennefer nodded as Geralt waved back. 

Every time she closed her eyes, she could see the burning embers of Cintra. 

“It’ll be a massacre,” she said dryly. 

“Yes,” Geralt nodded. “The temple is no longer safe. I thought about Kaer Morhen, but even so, Vesemir thought it was not a good idea. The three of us against an army, I mean. I don’t- Jaskier is looking into some options, but none of them are safe. They’re all too obvious, too weak, too unsafe…”

“Hmm,” she hummed, trying to think of something - of a place where she would be protected, hidden in plain sight. A place where she could grow, _thrive_ ; where there were people whom she trusted enough to watch over Cirilla, but who were capable enough to defend themselves-

She could see it, even. If she concentrated, she could see the columns of Aretuza as they rose from the stormy seas of Thanedd Island. 

“I know a place,” she said sighing. “Tell me, Geralt. How adverse would you be to the idea of Cirilla becoming a sorceress?”

“You don’t- You’re serious,” Geralt blinked slowly, then scowled, rubbing his eyes. “Shit. _Shit_. You’re right. Do you still-”

“I’ll write to Tissaia first thing in the morning,” Yennefer said quietly. “It’s- It’s for the best.”

“I suppose,” he said, mounting on Roach. “Keep me posted.”

“When don’t I ever,” she said, then paused - her heavy heart struggling to keep beating as she saw the beautiful angle of his shoulders, the lines on his forearms, the love and concern etched on his face. “Geralt.”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath. 

“I will care for Ciri as best as I can,” She said, finally, and it felt like her heart was being crushed under the weight of her sternum - each breath labored, each swallow painful. She would undergo a thousand transformations in the bowels of Aretuza not to be bound to Geralt any longer. “I will deliver her safely to Thanedd, and make sure Tissaia cares for her as deeply as I would. And then,” She looked him in the eyes; molten gold, unreachable love, and a whole life made of lies. She wanted to crumble. 

But this was a cruel world, with no place for love - if being loved cost her her freedom, she would eagerly face the bitter loneliness that lurked whenever she looked ahead. There was no giving up for a woman who decided to own her fate. 

And it hurt her _so_. 

“And then,” she repeated, feeling her heart-shattering in a million pieces, “after she is finally safe, I don’t ever, _ever,_ want to see you again. Is that clear?”

He opened his mouth, looking like he could argue - but then, as he always did, he lowered his head in meek acceptance. 

“Crystal,” he said, and spurred Roach on into the darkness of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter has been kindly corrected by lovely lovely Meadows, so I've updated it accordingly, and will do the same with this one as soon as she works her magic. 
> 
> i thought being stuck at home would help me write, but alas, i've been playing sims 4 a lot. so i hope y'all are staying in, wherever you are. wash your hands, avoid physical contact, and vote out politicians who'd rather people die than investors lose money. living healthily in a quarantine is all about balance, you see: drink some water, curse your president. balance, equilibrium.
> 
> (psa; i'm brazilian. no, i'm not okay. yes, i'm losing my fucking mind. thanks for asking)

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the story, as well as the quotes I have used throughout, are by author Clarice Lispector! :)
> 
> hmu on tumblr if you'd like to see me making an ass of myself https://lazy-universes.tumblr.com/


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